At the Abbey
by Hikari no Chibi
Summary: 1912-1920, a RumBelle, Snowing & Ensemble OUaT AU set at Downton Abbey. No previous knowledge of D.A. necessary, not a crossover unless you count the setting . "In the years leading up to and preceding WWI, life marches on at Downton: an above-stairs story of romance, betrayal, and changing sensibilities."
1. Chapter 1

**I. The House, 1898**

"_I was born here and I will die here. This house is my third parent and my fourth child; I've taken no profession, save for its upkeep and care." – _Earl Leopold Blanchard, Lord Grantham

The Right Honorable Lord Leopold Blanchard, Earl of Grantham, took stock of his estates after breakfast each morning. He loved the sight of the house's Bath stone faced, its high spires pointing skyward in the morning's bright light; he loved the regular spacing of the windows and doors juxtaposed by the Gothic flair and follies dotting his rather large estate.

The Earl was a lad at Downton Abbey, playing in the fountains when his mother still had him in short pants, an he'd known no better life for all the luxuries his family's wealth allowed. Before he was Lord Grantham, master of the estate, he was king of the hill on every knoll and stray rock. The forest and great yards surrounding Downton continuously inspired him, a whole lifetime later. To preserve the legacy of this place for his daughters – that was the single object of his desire.

He used to walk more extensively, when he was a younger man, and often in the company of his first wife. From the grand staircase and peaked arches in the great hall, to the furthest cottages and fence posts, he and his Lady made vast explorations almost every day. Then, of course, in the spring of 1894 his darling Margaret was taken away. His youngest, Lady Ella, survived a difficult birthing, and she was a constant blessing – but their home lacked a mother's sympathies and doting..

They'd all taken to mourning, some would say excessively. The girls wore black a full two years, and he himself pushed the boundaries of propriety to three. He'd paid little mind to the liens and financing of his properties during those days, but he could not neglect the future of his children any further. They required a mother, they required money, and they required a male heir.

Lord Grantham must remarry – an heiress, preferably, and she must be young enough to bear him a son. The title could not pass to his eldest girl, Lady Mary Margaret, no matter how he might have liked to see her settled as queen of the county.

And so, with a heavy heart and an empty pocketbook, Lord Grantham took it upon himself to leave England with his girls, and they made for New York in search of a suitable mother-bride.

**II. The Entail, 1912**

"_I do not intend to fight the entail. Not any part of it."_ – Lord Grantham

Regina loathed her husband, and she knew where to place the blame: it was a tie, between her step-daughter, her mother, and Lord Grantham himself. All of it might have been bearable, in a way, if she'd at least had her own money for security. But no. When the old man died, as he was eventually wont to do, she would be at the mercy of the heir thanks to her mother's ludicrous entail.

There was no hope of freeing her dowry from the rest of the estate, though she presumed Leopold would – at least – contemplate whittling off some portion to pass to his eldest girl now that the heirs were both dead. _Tragedy_. _Titanic_. These words were bandied about so frequently, they lost all meaning to Regina.

No. The entail was iron-clad, thanks to her mother's unsolicited meddling; Regina knew it, she'd consulted lawyers in scads since arriving at Downton. She must make her own way or risk future ruin, and Regina had no intention of living out her days in impoverished solitude. A widow's place was in London, or perhaps back in New York, and she looked forward greedily to the day she could doff her blacks and move freely through society as a dowager-Countess.

The Countess knew why her mother had done it, of course. It was the surest way to guarantee the beggarly Earl would propose and turn the Millcroft family of industrial barons into actual landed gentry. English gentry. Everything that was ambitious and _American_, as Mary Margaret liked to point out, about the idea revolted Regina, but that was her life now. He needed her securities, and she'd caught his eye quite unintentionally. From her mother's perspective, things couldn't have been spelled out more clearly.

She'd been foolish and naive to think she could trust Mary Margaret to keep her elopement a secret. Daniel, one of her father's foremen, was somewhere in the bottom of the Hudson Bay because of that wretched girl. To add insult to injury, when the child realized that her darling father meant to marry Regina and bring her home, her sweet attitude had changed to one of violent indignation. The eldest Lady Blanchard did not _want_ a new mother.

Lady Grantham couldn't decide if it was a blessing or a curse that she hadn't borne Leopold any children of her own. He, of course, had expected a son. A darling little half-brother to take care of the girls when he was gone, and someone he could trust with the solidarity of their estate. He'd taken everything she had to give, and it pleased Regina that he'd not taken that final thing for himself as well. No children suited her just fine, she had enough to contend with dealing with Mary Margaret, Isobel and little Ella.

Things were changing, though. The heir-apparent, Sir Albert Spencer Blanchard and his son, Mr. James Blanchard, were supposed to inherit everything – Regina's fortunes included. Leopold had fixed it with Albert that James would wed Lady Mary Margaret, effectively cutting Regina off from her life of relative comfort and entitlement at the very moment of Leopold's, and then Albert's, inevitable passing. As soon as she donned the airs of _Lady Grantham_, Mary Margaret would lock her away in some dour little dowager cottage and not send a penny more than the cost of maid and rented carriage; of that, Regina had no doubt whatsoever.

They'd kept word of the engagement to James limited to just the family, thankfully. None of the public need know that the loss of both Grantham heirs meant a new push for marriage from the girls' father. Damn Albert. Damn him for dying before Leopold. They'd had an understanding about the way Downton should be run when Leopold's health began to fail, and he'd gone and run aground of some iceberg in the mid-Atlantic. They, and all her careful planning, drowned.

All of them would go into mourning, and she would begin anew – with whomever the estate lawyers found to inherit next. She would secure a place for herself, and if she played her hand wisely she might also ensure that this new heir did _not_ engage himself or (any of his kin) to Mary Margaret.

**III. The Sisters, 191**2

"_So he slipped the hook?" "At least I'm not fishing with no bait."_ – Typical exchange between Lady Mary Margaret and Lady Isobel

Belle ignored her sister, mostly; there was no love lost between the pair. Mary Margaret resented that Isobel couldn't recall their mother's face without a photograph, found her unworthy of the memory and overly-accommodating of Regina's intrusion into their lives. Of course Ella was not to be blamed, Ella was only a baby. They might have grown out of it, once upon a time, before Mary Margaret soured herself by warring with Regina non-stop for nigh on twenty years.

It wasn't just the bickering with theirs step-mother, though. Mary Margaret had, a few summers prior, flirted away Belle's finance.

Sir George Gaston was the man their father had chosen for Belle, and they'd agreed to be married after a long courtship. They might have been happy and learned to love one another some day, but Mary Margaret had divided them forever with her meddling. She hadn't even given the pretense of wanting to marry him to soften the blow. It was petty. Petty, and so typically Mary Margaret.

If only they'd been born in an age of cavalry and swords instead of manners and steam engines – Mary Margaret might have fit in there, and her war with Regina wouldn't have turned to petty jabs over dinner. As it was, the only recourse she had to punish the woman who had replaced their mother was to make everyone else miserable all around her. If Regina didn't retaliate with such a flair, Belle would swear her sister a lunatic. Unfortunately, though, the constant bickering and scheming was their day-to-day routine.

Belle never felt plain in her day-to-day life. She was quite pretty, really. But she was not a devastating contrast of snow and ebony like Mary Margaret, nor a little beam of sunlight like Ella, and she did not fuss over her pin-curls excessively. Belle liked to be useful, though she wasn't as precocious about it as Ella, and spent her days in mostly domestic or scholarly pursuits.

She did quite well for herself at Downton; the crofters loved her. But when they visited London or attended one of their neighbor's formal suppers, Belle was always set aside. Suitors flocked to Lady Mary Margaret, and the compliments they paid her did not come unjustly - her sister _was_ lovely.

Mary Margaret had the dark hair and snowy skin of their mother, and Ella had all the bright lightness of their father before he began to gray. Belle was dun, peach-blushed skin with maple hair and bright blue eyes. Her looks were simply not as stylish or as vivid as those of the other two, and though she was younger by two years than Mary people already whispered things like "spinster" and "oddity" behind her back.

Her older sister was saying something meant to entice Belle's temper, the bookish middle daughter knew. But in the throes of Kafka's newest translation, she couldn't be bothered to take the bait. They'd only been out of black for a few months – James, dear sweet man, had died aboard _Titanic; _Mary Margaret, the clawing cat, should show more grief and less fang.

And the new heir... Belle liked him, generally. He was affable enough, though there were rumors circulating that he'd alienated half of the serving staff already. Liked to dress himself for dinner, or something equally strange. Well, that wasn't so bad. If Belle could be rid of her maid for two hours at a time, she'd be no more presentable in the dining room than a lowly kitchen gilr, but she would have ever-so-much more time to read.

They were, all of them, preparing with extra care for dinner tonight. Not only would Cousin David and his mother number amongst their company, but Sir Rumford and her step-mother's cotillion of gentlemen meant to woo Mary Margaret would also attend.

Ludicrous, really, that Mary Margaret flitted between them in great flights of fancy – sometimes two or three in a day. It was all to make David feel things, though Belle didn't rightly know if her sister meant to make their cousin jealous, isolated or annoyed. Truth told, she wasn't sure that Mary Margaret really knew either. That scared her a bit. That was, at its core, an accidental stain upon the Lady's reputation in the making.

Ruby, their first house maid and de facto lady's maid, had her hands busy coiffing her elder sister's hair for the evening. All of them wore sleek-fitted gowns and gloves, but Mary had taken extra care to look lovely. She was saying something uncomplimentary about their cousin again – said the same several things all day on repeat, really.

"Why are you so against him?" asked Ella, finally. Belle was proud of her youngest sister – the girl adored Mary Margaret, adored Regina, adored everyone really. Of course she couldn't understand any dislike of Cousin David, but it was rare of her to question Mary Margaret so openly.

"Aside from the fact he's trying to steal our inheritance?" asked the darker-haired girl of the three.

"Your inheritance," Belle reminded her. "It makes no difference to Ella and me. We won't inherit, whatever happens."

"He isn't one of us," replied Mary Margaret. "And neither is Regina. They're not family, they're all title-seekers thrust upward by industry."

"Cousin Frederick studied at the bar," Ella chimed in, "and so has Sir Rumford."

"Yes, in London. Not in some dirty little office in Manchester. Besides, his father was a doctor, not a gentleman," Mary Margaret snapped back. Her sister really was not going to give in, Belle decided.

"There's nothing wrong with doctors, we all need doctors," Ella championed. Of course Ella would defend the working men. Ella might even defend the working women, Belle had caught her encouraging the maids to take correspondence classes in typing and post-out for employment as secretaries. Nothing about Ella's sensibilities would ever startle Belle again – she was on her way to suffragette pamphlets and parliamentary rallies, if Belle knew anything about it. No one else could see it yet, but that didn't mean it wasn't coming.

"You wouldn't have Dr. Whale at your table, would you? We need street sweepers and builders too, it doesn't mean we have to dine with them." That was Mary Margaret's final word on the matter, it seemed.

The door opened then, and their step-mother walked in, a vision in black and garnet silk with lace trim. "Who don't we have to dine with?" inquired Regina.

"Mary Margaret doesn't like Cousin David," Belle supplied, eager that the two women most at odds in her life not spend an excessive amount of time exchanging barbs before getting to the point. The dining room and parlor would only further confine them to one another's side for the evening, best that they not get a running start at ruining things.

"Ella, be a dear and fetch my black evening shawl. The maid will know which one," Regina cooed.

Damn, thought Belle, a most unladylike sentiment. Regina meant to talk to them frankly, if she was sending Ella from the room. Mary Margaret was already rolling her eyes in the mirror, and Belle wished – not for the first time – that she could simply skip the family dinners.

"Isobel, can you see that the drawing room is ready?"

Double damn, then. Mary Margaret one-on-one with their step-mother was not a scenario that could ever end prettily. She left the two of them to their bickering.

**IV. The Scheme, 1913**

"_The girls need their own establishments. No one ever warns you about bringing up daughters. You think it's going to be like _Little Women_, but instead they're at each others' throats from dawn til dusk."_ – Lady Grantham

When Lady Regina Blanchard, Countess of Grantham, invited Sir Rumford Gold to Downton Abbey, she'd been fairly adamant in her implications that he should steal away one of her three step-daughters as a souvenir to remember the trip by. Naturally, she'd meant for him to make a bid at the eldest daughter of Earl Leopold Blanchard, Lady Mary Margaret – all sleek black pin-curls and snowy white limbs, a perennial thorn in Lady Grantham's side.

Silly little Countess. If she wanted him to play the Lothario exclusively to Lady Mary's Camilla, she should have been more specific in her insructions.

Lord Grantham was a fortunate man. He had three daughters by his late wife, the first Countess of Grantham, and each was uniquely lovely. Lady Mary was certainly the rarest of the three, her looks very much in fashion for the moment, but there was nothing about her situation that appealed to Gold. She'd inherit next to nothing, unless the entail an her father's estate was smashed, and – as a casual student of Law – Gold knew that would not be the case.

If he were to content himself with a woman who would have nothing, he might look to the youngest girl instead. She was all blondness and light where Lady Mary Margaret was a great contrast of coal and ice; where Lady Ella was precocious and kind, Lady Mary Margaret stood proud and – if he was honest – a bit too arrogant for one as middle-born as himself.

The middle daughter also had her charms – though her looks were more in the plain way than the other two. She was not ugly, by any means, but her looks and dress were nowhere near as flashy as the other two daughters in Lord Grantham's set. Superficiality was not his style, and Lady Isobel was undoubtedly the more grounded, well-read of the set. Unfortunately, she'd also been quite infamously jilted, and Rum had no intentions of picking up another man's leavings for himself.

Rum was not the only gentleman to make the rounds at Downton, naturally. Regina had called in bachelors – from knighted entrepreneurs like himself to high-born Dukes – in the hopes that one of them would take a step-daughter away and unburden her. It was not an entirely unworthy scheme. If the girls could be engaged before Lord Grantham's new heir was declared, Lady Grantham's well-known war with Lady Mary Margaret would, in effect, end. Lord Grantham certainly could not be long for this world – another decade or two at best, and then Regina might enjoy herself in town on the usual dowager's wage.

It was almost not worth the bother for him to visit, really. He knew Regina for a snake in high grass, a wolf among the lambs, and she knew him for the same. Aside from his almost vulgarly large fortune, Sir Rumford Gold did not consider himself much of a catch.

He limped; shrapnel from his time in South Africa had seen to that – and it was, he thought, their mutual service in the name of the Empire that caused Lord Grantham to tolerate Gold's presence in his home as often as he did. They'd that in common, even though age and rank divided them: Gold dabbled in trade – news papers and finance. That would be the Lord's greatest objection to him, probably.

But their world was a changing place. Fifty years prior, before Rum was born, a man – even a wealthy man – who mucked about in business would be considered something of a pariah by people like the Blanchards. Now though, in the new century, men like Gold held the power and cast their parliamentary votes with stunning efficiency. Power, real power, was in money and knowledge.

Respectability, on the other hand... that could not be purchased. The only way a man like Rumford Gold, reputed for his acerbic wit and mercenary business practices, could earn it was by marrying a girl like Mary Margaret Blanchard. He might spare the younger two his torments, or at least the bulk of them; they, at least, had the distinction of being gentlewomen.

Watching the eldest child of a great Earl squirm and flirt her way awkwardly around her father's third-cousin and heir pleased him immensely. Whether he proposed or not, the game of provoking her absurdities and hypocrisies could not be ignored; in fact, it suited him. And Downton Abbey suited him, too. He would stay, for a few weeks more at least, and watch their pulpy little drama first-hand.

Even tonight, the eldest had made a complete fool of herself for his amusement. It took a subtle hand, not to get caught at his games. This opportunity came easy: Rum suggested that they ride – a laugh in itself, as his leg prevented him from joining.

"Don't be ridiculous, Cousin David doesn't ride," the girl giggled back coolly.

"I ride," David insisted, looking entirely put-out by the errant claim.

"And do you hunt?" Regina inquired. Regina did love a good hunting party, the stables at Downton were full-up with her dearly bought mounts and studs.

"No, I don't hunt."

"I dare say there's not much opportunity in Manchester," Lady Mary Margaret supplied. Rum had worked very hard to stifle a laugh. This bit of baiting was playing out splendidly!

"Are you a hunting family?" Mr. Blanchard shot back, after an awkward silence. He had manners enough not to let a lady hang herself at the dinner table; that was something to be said for him, at any rate.

"Families like ours are always hunting families," the girl fired back.

"Not always," offered the Earl. "Jefferson won't have them on his land."

"Jefferson's mad," Lady Mary Margaret snapped. Oh yes, Rum was enjoying this conversation greatly.

"Do you hunt?" asked Mr. Blanchard, sparing his cousin from her own sharpness once again.

"Occasionally. I suppose you're more interested in books than country sports, like Isobel."

"Probably," remarked Mr. Blanchard. He had a bit of impishness in his own expression, and Gold found it absurd that anyone would assume a fit man in his prime didn't fancy an afternoon of country sporting.

The family fell back into their rhythms eventually, behaved naturally.

Still, Rum filed his little snippets of information away. So Lady Isobel was, like himself after injuring his leg, the token academic of the family. Perhaps he'd pay her a visit in the Earl's library one day.

**V. The Heir, 1913**

"_You will inherit the estate. Of course you can throw it away when you have it, that's up to you."_ – Lady Grantham, to Mr. David Blanchard

Mary Margaret had no use for this rude solicitor from Manchester. Her father _would_ see reason on the matter of the entail, and even if a woman could not take the family title she would inherit all the lands and holdings due a first-born child. It mattered very little to Lady Mary Margaret that the money was Regina's originally; when the old witch married her father she'd agreed to make what was hers his, and that should – in a fair world – mean it passed to her upon his death.

She loved her papa, more than anything. Protecting Downton Abbey was his life, and her best dream. Mary Margaret knew her heart was often chilly and her favors fickle, but her passion for the estate shone through clearly. When she met a man she could love as well as she loved her ancestral home, that was a man she could happily marry.

Put simply, her insidious step-mother did not feel similarly. Regina had confessed to her when they first met in New York City that she did not love her papa; swore she had no intention of marrying into their family, of replacing their mama. Planned an elopement, and it all seemed very romantic to Mary Margaret at the time. She spun a lovely lie, about a working-class man and a wedding...

It was supposed to be a secret, she guessed, but Mrs. Cora was very kind and Mary Margaret had no qualms discussing Regina's plans in the least. Mary Margaret even had it from her step-grandmother that the Millcrofts would approve of the arrangement – anything to make their only daughter happy.

But, naturally, there was no foreman and there was no clandestine wedding. She'd thought Regina a true romantic, found it fascinating to unbind the laws of society and marry for nothing more than the sheer pleasure of it.

That was the kind of mama Mary Margaret wanted as a child, not the liar who married her money to their lands and slept in her real mother's bedroom. She'd been shocked to see Regina making her vows to their father; hadn't understood any of it, beyond knowing that it was greedy and wrong. After that day, Mary Margaret never entertained illusions about fraternizing with the peasantry again.

Isobel (she refused to use their father's pet-name, Belle) followed her everywhere when they were children. She was always underfoot, always getting Mary Margaret into trouble. And, what was worse, she called the imposter "mother," and played at tea parties and smiled. Little sisters were obstacles, except Ella, who was an adventurous spirit and too young to know better than to treat Regina like part of the family. Regina was _not_ family. Papa, Ella, Uncle Albert and Cousin James were family. Isobel too, even thought they fought.

She wouldn't go so far as to say she hated Isobel, but there was no love lost between them. She broke Mary Margaret's toys, got show-offish in front of their tutors and governesses, and intruded upon Mary Margaret's solitude in London by coming out in the same season as her older sister, and then there was the laughable matter of the fiance...

It wasn't much to ask, that her sister wait another two years for parties and cocktails so Mary Margaret could have her triumphs to herself for a change. For Ella, at least, the transition into society was not marred by sisterly rivalries.

To Mary Margaret's chagrin, Isobel was infatuated with David much the way she had been with James. Their papa said it was simply her sister's nature to be kind to everybody, but Mary Margaret knew that was not the case. Lord Grantham, for all his wisdom, did not have the discretion of a woman's intuitive gaze. Ella, at least, was too young for the heir that fate had foisted onto the estate.

One night, nearer to the start of their "heir-apparent" charade, Regina had cornered Mary Margaret as she readied for dinner, sent the other two girls from the room, and they'd been forced to speak frankly.

"Glad to catch you alone," Regina opened. That was a laugh, a mockery. She'd only just sent the other two off on simple chores at opposite ends of the house.

"You've driven the others away."

"Well of course I have," the older woman smiled. That was Regina, to a tee. All poisonous smiles and deadly simpering. "The point is, my dear, I don't want you – any of you – to feel you have to dislike David."

"I dislike the idea of him. So do you. He'll come between you and your precious dowry."

"That was before we met him. Now he's here, and there's no future in thinking that way. Your father will not break the entail, nor could he if he chose to try – I'm convinced," said her step-mother. Regina was changing tactics, it seemed.

"How can you think that a woman can be forced to give away all her money to a distant cousin of her father's? Not in the twentieth century, it's too ludicrous for words."

"It's not that simple. That money was mine before it was yours, and it's still not yours to claim. It's part of the estate. Why should you inherit it over David?"

"It's not something-"

"For once in your life will you please just listen!" snarled Regina. Good. It was time that her claws started showing. "I believe there's an answer that would secure your position and give you a future. Sir Rumford..."

"You can't be serious."

"Just think about it. He would certainly accommodate you with an estate nearer the Abbey than anyone else we know, and probably furnish you with a generous allowance to keep up your father's properties should your cousin fall below the mark." The other woman was back to her smiling masque again. "I'll see you downstairs in half an hour."

That had been a fortnight ago, or maybe longer. She would not marry Sir Rumford Gold, no matter how much property he held. Mary Margaret had rather marry David, if it came to that. Neither man was what she intended for herself – David could barely hold his knife like a gentleman. Regina was an American and an outsider, she didn't understand these things, all she cared about was money.

David may look handsome and wear his tuxedo well, but he was not a gentleman. He did, however, make a better facsimile of one than the limping, brooding Gold. It wasn't just the misfortune of his birth that turned her from their charming cousin – it was his flippant attitude about the whole thing. Like he didn't want to be taken from his small cottage and made into something.

Mary Margaret heard her third cousin remarking, casually, to her step-mother that he did not want Downton. And Regina, of course, told him he would have it and do with it as he pleased. They'd no sense of preservation or pride, it was the basest kind of scoundrel-fodder. Regina would have him wrapped around her little finger, and then she'd insert her hand into the estate coffers barely half a minute after her papa was dead. Mary Margaret never doubted that would be the case.

She made it her mission to find the most advantageous marriage offer she could muster. The Duke who'd visited them was a bit of a wastrel, but since they'd taken off their mourning garb three weeks ago the house had been full of gentlemen callers seeking her favors. Some thought she would inherit once her father broke the entail, others simply loved her for herself. All of them infuriated Cousin David, and the longer she could keep him on his toes with jealousy, the longer she could keep him out of her step-mother's grasp.

He'd thought she would marry him, as a matter of principle. Well, David was certainly going to be sorely mistaken. He may take the title and sully it by working on industrial law in the village, but the final word was not yet said on the matter of who would keep Downton Abbey.

**VI. The Scandal, 1913**

"_No Scotsman would dream of dying in someone else's house, dearie - especially somebody they didn't even know."_ – Sir Rumford, joking with Lady Isobel

Mr. Sydney Djinn was not what anyone had expected. Mary Margaret thought he'd be a dreadfully short brute with a gap-toothed grin and too much pomade in his hair to keep a hat on his head. Instead, he'd been something of a dandy – a very charming, charismatic, and exceptionally kind dandy. That he rode like a proper cavalry man endeared him to Regina, which Mary Margaret did not like, but she did like the way his special attentions to herself set the rest of the gentlemen's teeth on edge. They should all keep on their toes, Cousin David was not heir to Downton _yet_.

And the hunt _had_ been lovely. Regina, of course, rode way out in front with the hounds, taking fences and hedgerows at an astounding gait, with both legs splayed across her stallion like some roving cowboy. That irked Mary Margaret, but she remained with Mr. Djinn and his company, all smartly dressed in their red coats, while she made quite the silhouette in a fitted navy riding habit – seated properly, sidesaddle, across her horse's back.

Cousin David did not like to see herself and the Turkish Ambassador so thick, but he seemed determined to keep up with her step-mother in the pack. No matter how fine he looked upon a horse or how well he rode – and he did ride very well, perhaps only a smidgen less brilliantly than Regina herself – Mary Margaret was determined not to like him. For the duration of his stay, she'd resolved to like Sydney Djinn instead.

Limping Sir Rumford and poor, dull Isobel had made a day of touring the local churches or something equally boring. Ella was off shopping in town, leaving Mary Margaret quite alone to flirt with her handsome guest from Tukey.

"Isobel. Isobel. Isobel, wake up!" Belle rolled over in her bed, trying to ignore Mary Margaret's midnight prodding.

"Isobel, Mr. Djinn is dead."

"Wha...?" Belle roused herself, finally, to see what all the bother was about. Mary Margaret and their maid, Ruby, were standing beside her, looking expectant.

"He came to me in the night, and we were... together. But he's dead, I know he's dead..." The elder sister was past rationality.

"In your bed?" Belle began to see the bigger picture of Mary Margaret's raving. "He didn't... force you?"

"No! No, he didn't... force me. But he's dead, Isobel. Oh please. Please, please say you'll help me. Ruby and I can't lift him on our own, he's too heavy."

Belle was completely stunned. She'd never, in all her life, expected Mary Margaret to do something so skull-shatteringly stupid as take a foreign ambassador to bed with her. She knew without asking why they'd come to her – they needed someone who would be compelled to keep the secret from the public and their father. Clearly Ruby hadn't trusted any of the maids, nor Mary Margaret their step-mother. That left herself, or Ella – but Ella made a poor secret-keeper, and Belle would rather die than let her father find out what his eldest daughter got up too after midnight.

"We'll talk about this later," Belle whispered to her two co-conspirators. "For now, we need to get him back to his own room." She had no choice. A scandal of this magnitude... it would ruin Mary Margaret, and the rest of the household would suffer along with her. So, she threw on her dressing gown, and did what she had to.

"I hope you know," Belle told her sister, "that I don't think I can forgive you for putting us all through this tonight. But I hope, at least, that I will become more merciful."

"You won't tell papa?"

"Of course not, it would kill him. But I'm keeping this secret for his sake, not for you."

She'd expected Mary Margaret to behave with her usual disregard and flippancy, but instead her sister threw herself into Belle's arms and the pair of them retreated to Belle's room for the night. Even Ruby stayed, as much a friend as a maid for the night, leaving only when the rest of the servants were due to awake.

Later, after the tumult of emotions had run its course, the two sisters lay in bed together, having their first really honest conversation since they'd been nursery-aged. It was time, Belle had decided when they began, for her sister to get a small dose of reality.

So they talked about men as the sun began to rise. It wasn't the serious conversation about responsibility and family that Belle wanted, but it kept their minds off the mess they'd encountered in Mary Margaret's bed that night.

They even discussed the matter of Sir Rumford Gold. Mary Margaret called him a wicked old sea monster, and painted herself some sort of virgin sacrifice – an Andromeda in chains. Of course, she drew the same parallels to their cousin David, so the whole thing was becoming a bit trite.

"I suppose I shall have to marry Sir Rumford now..." moaned Mary Margaret.

"You're not really going to marry him," chided Belle, wishing desperately that her sister would stop with the melodrama and focus on covering up her own illicit scandal.

"No, I suppose not," her sister sobbed. "Sea monsters only like virgins."

That was quite enough self-pity for Belle's liking. "He'll have to marry someone, though. I quite like him," she confessed, trying to change the subject. They had to make a decent presentation of themselves at breakfast in a few hours; the body should be discovered by then.

"There's always A.H.," teased Belle, trying to get her sister talking again. Belle knew the man had been wooing her sister, in a very timid sort of way. She'd seen the love letters, always signed A.H. instead of with his full name.

"How do you know about that? Have you been poking around in my things?"

"I may have seen something," the maple-haired sister confessed. "The Right Honorable Archibald Hopper. He was very nice this afternoon, wasn't he? Not quite a Perseus, but..."

"You think I should attach myself to him now, after flirting all day yesterday with his friend?"

"I don't know what I think anymore," replied Belle. "But I do know that you're going to be un-made if something comes of tonight before you're married."

Mary Margaret sobbed in earnest again, and wrenched a pillow against her face. Of course she hadn't thought any of this through – hadn't considered that she might get pregnant, or be caught by some visiting snoop. It wasn't Belle's pleasure to be cruel, though she thought her sister deserved as good as she gave, but the reality could not be ignored. Even if the scandal did not leave the halls of Downton, they wouldn't know whether or not they were really safe for another month or so.

Alas, the secret would not stay locked away in Downton. They'd had an audience to their maneuvers in the hall way – one neither of them would discover until it was too late.

**VII. The Chauffeur, 1913**

"_You can change your life if you want to. Sometimes you have to be hard on yourself, but you can change it completely. I know."_ – Mr. Thomas Herman, to Lady Ella

"I think it's terrific that people make their own lives, especially women," Ella told the house maid. Astrid desperately wanted to become a secretary, going so far as to take correspondence courses and spend her money on typewriting machine.

Ella direly wanted to go to school. The only things one could learn from a governess, besides how to hide behind the drapes quietly, were French and a graceful curtsey. Her father would not hear of her going off to academies, and especially not to university. She envied Astrid, in her way. Astrid, at least, was free to follow any dream she chose – though time and money sometimes got in the way; but Ella knew that, on the other end of the staircase, time and money in overabundance could be a dire obstacle too.

Ella didn't bother much with the daily dramas around Downton Abbey, preferring to spend her time working on more important things like women's suffrage and progressive workers' rights. Her sisters were both worked into a tizzy over the death of Mr. Djinn the other week, but seeing Astrid happily employed – outside of service, if that's what she liked – interested Ella far more than any Turkish man's dead body.

"You can name me as a reference," Ella continued. "I can give it without ever specifying what, exactly, your work here has been."

Astrid thanked her, and they parted ways.

Despite her efforts to make over the rules of their society, Ella was still obligated to fill the role of the Earl's dutiful daughter. She had a fitting in town in a few days, to get another boring dress for endless nights of sipping champagne and dancing uselessly. The new chauffeur – Mr. Herman – was something of a wild card. A student of politics and history, and something of a progressive himself if memory served.

That, at least, might prove interesting. Certainly more interesting than corsets and fancy-dressing.

Ella frequently saw her oldest sister and their cousin whispering in the hallway, always clandestinely. She dared not say anything to them about it, since she visited Astrid in the same clandestine hallways.

Once, without meaning to, she'd overheard them openly discussing the business of the entail. Ella hadn't meant to spy, but she knew also that their words mean things at Downton really were changing.

"To break the entail we'd need a private act of Parliament?" Her sister sounded incredulous; not a good color on one as milky-white as Mary Margaret.

"Even then it would only be passed if the estate were in danger, which it's not." Ella thought David was doing a good job of being kind about it, but Mary Margaret's response begged to differ.

"And I mean nothing in all of this?"

"On the contrary, you mean a great deal. A very great deal."

It thrilled Ella to see the buds of romance forming, not that Mary Margaret would deign to see it that way. She loved her eldest sister, perhaps better than she loved Belle and Regina, but the twit could be so ridiculously caught up in her old grudges and prejudices that she didn't see the good things, even when they punched her on the nose. Whatever the pair of them said next, Ella missed it; she'd already overstayed her welcome, so she crept away without announcing her presence.

She could speak to Astrid another day, when less obstacles blocked the way. In the mean time, she quite fancied a trip into town. Perhaps to the hospital, to see what could be done. She'd ring Mr. Herman, have him bring up a car for the day.

As it happened, Astrid found her instead. She'd finally heard from a prospective employer – the bright little maid had an interview!

Ella swore to cover for her, to help her fake some small illness, and they parted ways.

When that day came, Ella pretended on Astrid's behalf, and then dashed out the door to go to her dress fitting. If she was not at home to be questioned, then her orders to the servants would stand – no one was to disturb Miss Astrid's rest today.

As they motored along the road, Ella's mind racing with high hopes for Astrid, Mr. Herman spoke to her.

"Will you have your own way with the frock, do you think? I heard you talking to Lady Grantham before, and it sounds like you support women's rights as well."

"I suppose I do," Ella replied. It was not acceptable for him to address her so freely, but it was exactly what she wanted for her life – equality. Aside from being a bit startled, Ella was determined that she should speak to Mr. Herman like a person instead of an employee.

"Because I'm quite political. In fact, I brought some pamphlets that I thought might interest you about women and the vote." He passed her a handful of pages from one of his jacket pockets.

"Thank you! But please don't mention this to my father. Or my step-mother. Or my sisters, really. It seems unlikely, a revolutionary chauffeur."

"Maybe. I took this job because my last one was boring," Thomas confided in his charge. "The mistress was a nice lady, but she only had one car and she wouldn't let me drive it over 20 miles an hour." They were silent for a moment, then he added: "And I won't always be a chauffeur."

Later that week, Ella was pleased to present her family with their seamstress' newest creation: a cocktail dress, made of gossamer and satin, ending in a pair of billowing harem pants. Her father nearly had a stroke, and Regina seemed torn between horror and amusement, but Ella liked it. She liked it very well, and – she decided – she liked Mr. Herman very much too, as he peeked in at her debut from outside the garden window.

"My corset is tight. Ruby, when you're done with Mary Margaret's hair, will you be an angel and loosen it for me?"

"That's the slippery slope," remarked her oldest sister. Belle had the decency, at least, to look ashamed.

"I'm not gaining weight," Ella insisted. "I don't know why we bother with corsets. Men don't wear them, and they look perfectly fine."

"No all of them," snapped Mary Margaret.

"She's just showing off," replied Belle. "She'll be on about the vote in a minute."

Well, that sparked an entire debate. But, happily, the corset stays were – at long last – loosened slightly.

Ella meant to bring it up again, later, when she visited Belle's room before bed. Instead, she heard Mary Margaret sobbing, and Belle doing some small comforting.

"Of course papa won't fight the entail, why would he? He's got a son now, it's all David-this and David-that. He's given up on me."

"Papa loves you very much," Belle was saying.

"He wouldn't fight for me-"

"He wouldn't fight because he knew he couldn't win!"

"Oh, you don't care. You don't care that he wouldn't fight, because you don't think I'm worthy to inherit at all. You and Regina, you're just the same. I wish you'd admit it – I'm a lost soul to you after that night!"

Ella did her best to sneak away. Whatever those two had between them, it was more important than making a few new arguments in favor of women voting.

It slipped her mind, though, when she finally heard the good news from Astrid. Astrid, darling Astrid! She'd done exceptionally well at the interview. The job was hers, and Ella meant to fit her out in new clothes so she could make a real go of it as a professional woman.

Astrid, sadly, was having second thoughts. She didn't think she could do it, felt horribly under-qualified.

"People rarely hit the bulls eye with the first arrow, Astrid," Ella told her. "You have a great opportunity, I'd hate to see you lose it. You can change your own life."

It was just like a fairy-tale, everything working out so nicely. Ella didn't want to take credit for the other woman's accomplishments, but she couldn't help feeling a little like a fairy godmother. Astrid would do wonderfully, and the house could always find a new maid. She hoped, really hoped, that her involvement in her servant's life would never be taken as anything other than what it was intended – a kindness.

Astrid smiled, and wiped away her tears. She'd give her notice at the end of the week. She was going to be a secretary and start a real career! They all bid her adieu, and life at Downton returned to its usual restless routine.

Whenever Ella needed to travel now, she was always careful to reserve Thomas' services with her father. It happened, once, that she snuck off to a political meeting with a horse and open carriage. Well, the poor beast fell lame and she'd come back barely in time for dinner, caked in mud, and nearly ruined everything.

The family could understand a certain degree of eccentricity among their youngest daughter, but Ella knew they would not tolerate her sneaking off to rallies and speeches unescorted. She also knew no one would escort her without putting up a massive fight.

Mr. Herman would, though. He'd take her where she liked, keep her safe, and talk to her on the way like her opinions really mattered.

No one else was like him, not even Belle and Mary Margaret. Their feelings on politics could be summed up neatly with the lame horse story. Belle felt badly that Ella had to walk back from the last outing, didn't like to trod on anybody but didn't see a lot of need for change; Mary Margaret felt the horse was in the wrong for going lame, and wasn't sure she'd have left the carriage seat at any rate. Neither of them meant to walk everywhere intentionally, for the rest of their lives, as Ella sometimes wanted to do.

Regina and her papa did not understand, and it would be on her own head if they ever discovered her double-life as a political radical.

It was only Thomas who she could talk to, and Ella didn't mind their little chats in the garage at all. In fact, she looked forward to them. He wanted to be a politician, wanted to give women the vote, and wanted to end the gap between the aristocracy and the poor – wanted to end Ella's way of life.

That scared her, frankly. Socialism could be frightening. But she thought she wouldn't mind so much if that was her future, as long as she had Thomas there with her.

**VIII. The Prank, 1913**

"_Rumford Gold is approaching middle age, sly as a snake and twice as likely to bite. I doubt very much that Mary Margaret wants to sit next to him at dinner, let alone marry him." "She has to marry someone, Leopold. If rumors are spreading in London, then she has to marry soon." _– Private exchange between Lord and Lady Grantham

Sufficient time had passed since the debacle with Mr. Djinn that Mary Margaret was back to taking claw-swipes at Belle. Belle, for her part, could not say she was surprised. Mary Margaret had got it into her head, somehow, that Belle was making a play for David. It was ludicrous, really, and Regina's input on the matter was not helping. She liked her step-mother, liked her very well. But the tension between her older sister and Regina was fast reaching a boiling-point, and Regina was only exacerbating things.

In Belle's opinion, Regina was not doing enough to mend the bridges they'd spent their adolescence burning down. She seemed happy to push any man _except_ David toward Mary Margaret, Mary Margaret rejected each one in turn, and since about mid-summer Regina had been conspiring to ship her older sister off to their neighbors' homes for a string of silly house parties.

Regina did not approve of Mary Margaret's reactions to Mr. Djinn. "One can't go to peices at the death of every foreigner," their step-mother said. "We'd all be in a state of collapse whenever we opened a news paper."

At least Regina had a sense of humor about it. Belle liked that, a little darkness to laugh at, as long as the mockery wasn't too severe. Sir Rumford had that kind of a wit, and she liked his company very much – when he could be pried away from Mary Margaret and David's flirtatious train-wreck.

For her own piece of the domestic disruption, Mary Margaret had stumbled upon the brilliant (or brilliantly silly, as Belle saw it) idea of hiring their Cousin David's law firm to break their father's entail and disinherit himself. That was bound to end poorly, though David was certainly honest enough to do the task some justice.

David wouldn't wish to benefit at Mary Margaret's expense, simply because their father had decided not to pursue the matter of the entail further. He was a decent sort of fellow, one Belle would like to see happy – even if that meant he inherited everything.

Regina retaliated by hiring him to preserve the blasted thing, and he'd had to walk away from both ladies, leaving the pair of them snarling. Her step-mother, for all that she'd raised three girls who were not her own to the best of her ability, really baffled Belle at times. She could understand not wanting her dowry to go to Mary Margaret, who was always picking fights and raising hell for them at home. The idea that Regina and her father wouldn't have a son hadn't even occurred to most of their immediate relatives at the time of the wedding.

But they hadn't. And then Sir Albert and James had died, leaving no heir to replace them. No heir, save David. And David couldn't very well prosecute and defend both sides of the same case. The whole thing made Belle's head spin. She much preferred the quiet company of Sir Rumford Gold, when he was visiting, and the relative solitude of her father's extensive library.

Sir Rumford visited them frequently, usually at Regina's request, but sometimes their father sent him a card if he'd planned a meeting amongst his old war regiment. Belle wasn't sure what to make of the man. He worked in newspapers, dabbled in law, and had as fine a fortune as anyone could hope for short of ransoming a member of the royal family. His manners were impeccable, despite his industry, and he was generally accepted in all the first circles. He'd lost a wife to childbirth and a son to malaria, somewhere in India on a military operation, and hadn't any need for traveling outside the country since.

She liked him, liked him very much. But he gave no indication of preferring her to her fairer and lovelier sister. The only time they spent in close company was if he joined Belle in the library, or if they took a stroll through the village when everyone else was away hunting. Those interludes were far from romance and wooing – he seemed genuinely interested in what she was reading, in the architecture and stone-masonry of the clergy.

Belle liked all those things too, didn't find them as boring as Ella or Mary Margaret would, but they allowed her no room to maneuver as an eligible lady would.

Her step-mother seemed to have redoubled her efforts to settle Sir Rumford with Mary Margaret. Her sister, she knew, thought of the whole thing as absurd. Remarked regularly that, if she'd turned down a fit specimen like David, why would she accept a crippled old thing like Gold? Belle hated that. His limp was hard-won, and it did not inconvenience him greatly. So he chose to drive himself rather than to ride; driving seemed a great adventure, when not stuck looking at the back of your chauffeur.

Alas, tonight was to be the courtship of Lady Mary Margaret Blanchard by Sir Rumford Gold of London or Regina would die trying to make it that way. There was a rumor in London that Mary Margaret was not a virtuous lady. Belle knew it to be true, but their parents were, fortunately, ignoring it. Rum could not be ignorant of it, close as he was to the city community.

Sir Rumford certainly didn't seem to mind, though how he didn't burst out laughing at the whole thing (when she knew his fondness for exaggeration and cutting quips from their frequent little library chats) still baffled Belle. Instead of spending her night gawking and wondering, she simply tried not to behave jealously; Belle did not want a repeat of the feud they'd fought over a man previously – even if that man _was_ Belle's first and last fiance.

Their dinner party made her want to scream. It was a large affair, with everyone pairing off into the usual escort combinations. Sometimes Rum would take Belle's arm for dinner, but he'd been paying attention to Mary Margaret all night. Belle felt, at first, that he must be playing some elaborate joke on them all. He was talking of farming. Mechanized farming, the furthest thing from his own profession and Mary Margaret's interests. Her eldest sister kept making cutting asides to Cousin David, but Rum just kept at it.

It was all too much; he must be serious, because even his own penchant for causing trouble – something Belle appreciated more and more as she got to know the man – wouldn't go quite that far. Would it?

"Blast it all!" he'd shouted, Scottish burr thick, in the middle of dessert. That was the most spirited thing he'd done all night, and he was usually so animated that Belle didn't mind it. Everyone else was looking appalled.

"Terribly sorry, my Lady," he said to Regina after gulping down some wine. "I've just had a mouthful of salt."

Belle sampled a tiny portion of her own and nearly gagged. The plates were sent away, and Mary Margaret fell into a fit of giggles with Cousin David for company. Clearly they'd been co-conspirators in the prank, one for which the kitchen staff would ultimately pay. Belle spoke politely with Rum to cover for her sister's laughing fit, and could have sworn he'd winked at her when making his reply. They made polite conversation, eyes locked, while Mary Margaret took a few moments to recover.

Finally, the ladies adjourned to the parlor for drinks. The men would join them, later, but in the mean time it only provided Mary Margaret with another forum in which to sharpen her claws. She accused Belle of trying to seduce Gold, Belle accused her sister of giggling like a child in the school yard, and Regina – who could never keep her mouth shut – thanked Belle somewhat condescendingly for looking after their guest. Their other ladies present could only be pitied for having to witness such a thing.

Belle wished she hadn't taken the bait so openly. Now Mary Margaret was treating Rum like her own personal property. She didn't want him, didn't know him, didn't even like him, but he was rich and she a beauty. Wealth and good looks paired together as well as port and pudding. Every time Belle took it upon herself to speak to the man she was, after all this time, beginning to see as at least a friend, Mary Margaret drew him away again. So that was it. She was the plain sister, jilted again; she might as well just stop trying to intrude.

Instead, she spoke to David. But David, seeing Mary Margaret so interested in Gold, left the parlor abruptly and walked back to his cottage in the night. They were a regular set of misery, each one measured out evenly.

Her papa leaned down to Regina's ear and whispered something, but Belle caught the gist of it. Lord Grantham thought her sister a child for thinking that, if she set her toys down and walked away, they would still be waiting when she came back to play. Regina played it off innocently, claiming ignorance to any wrong-doing, but Belle, for her own tuppence worth, was inclined to agree.

They spent the next day ignoring one another at the county's flower show. Mary Margaret and David were at it again – he wanted her when she didn't want him, and now she wanted him when he was resolved not to have her. Belle thought it was funny, and would have remarked the same to Rum if she could find him.

So things returned to normal, and Gold returned to London. Ella and the chauffeur had some trouble about a political rally, but all that was set to rights again and their father didn't sack the poor man. Belle did worry about Ella's penchant for progress, but their blonde-haired sister was firmly Mary Margaret's pet. Between her and Regina's doting, Ella wanted for nothing.

Word was spreading faster now about the affair with Mr. Djinn, and Belle knew she's be implicated too if the whole story ever escaped. Even with the risk of an inquiry looming, she felt entirely up to her ears with her older sister; didn't mind so much that it left Mary Margaret's disposition less than sunny.

Then, one day, sitting in the parlor, Sir Rumford paid them a call. Regina immediately sent for Mary Margaret, and Belle supposed that she wished them well. Her own infatuation was ending; bitterness and quarreling put her very much out of the romantic mood.

"Sir Rumford, how nice," Mary Margaret greeted Gold, wearing her riding habit and a pair of fitted boots. "We all thought we drove you away with that horrible, salty prank."

"No indeed, dearie," the man replied. He looked at pains to present himself affably today, Belle noted. "But I have been away."

"He's been in Austria and Germany," Belle added. She would love to travel and see that part of the world some day, but it was odd for Rum to do so. Except he'd wanted a motor, and - she assumed - to do a bit of politicking. The car was the reason for his visit that day.

"Gold stopped by to show you his new car," Regina crooned.

Mary Margaret looked less than enthused, but asked the polite follow-up questions anyway. He drove an open Rolls Royce, wanted to know if she'd like a turn around the countryside that afternoon. Of course she did not, and begged off to go horseback riding.

Their step-mother did her level best to get Mary Margaret to reconsider, which was daft – that was the least likely thing to convince her. Rum sat down to tea, and Belle finally found her bravery. "I don't suppose that you would take me driving?"

Rum looked a bit surprised, but obliged. They had a wonderful drive, talking about politics in Europe and poetry, but he seemed very tense to her. Not at all at ease as he had in the library. He returned her to Downton Abbey, and Belle vowed not to foist herself onto the man again. Let him limp along after David and Mary Margaret. Any fool could see the pair of them were about to collide – either with a marriage or a murder, but that remained to be seen.

Then, one night, as they all sat in the parlor, a footman came in and announced Gold unexpectedly. He greeted them, and then addressed the room.

"I've two tickets for a concert in town tonight, so I thought I'd pop by and take a chance-"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," replied Mary Margaret, interrupting him. "But I simply can't-"

"Well and good, dearie," he interrupted in kind. "I am actually here for Lady Isobel."

The room was momentarily stunned, but Belle made her farewells, asked her father's permission, and the pair of them left straight-away. When they were a safe distance from the Abbey's gate, Belle finally chanced a look at him. He had the same sly grin he sported during their talks in the library, looked a bit like the cat who caught the canary.

"You didn't really think I meant to court your older sister, did you dearie? You've looked quite put-out with me for the past fortnight."

"As a matter of fact," murmured Belle, "I did. You... you planned all of this? Why?"

"My own little prank on your poor sister, I'm afraid. She's been vicious little thing, though I suppose you don't need to worry about it."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I'd think it's obvious. She's like a child at play, Lady Mary Margaret; I found all of it hilarious at first, but then – I hadn't quite counted you into things."

"Me?"

"Aye, you. You're a brilliant, lovely, little thing. I meant to spend more time with you in the library once all that ugliness with your family and my little prank played out, but you're a braveheart, Belle. Looked me right in the face and demanded that I take you driving when Lady Mary Margaret turned me down. I've never been more surprised, or more pleased - that was what let me really hope you might... well, now that Lady Grantham and your sister are off of me, I was hoping you would deign to be escorted around the county by an old cripple?"

"You're not a cripple!" Belle insisted. "And, if you mean to flatter me... I think you're doing splendidly. Did you really talk about mechanized farming all night just to put a bee in my sister's bonnet?"

"Do you disapprove?"

"On the contrary, I approve whole-heartedly."

"You won't give up on me, even though I'm twice your age and mired knee-deep in industry?"

"I'd have to be quite a fool to give up on a man who makes me laugh and calls me lovely," said Belle, and she leaned in to press a chaste kiss to Rum's cheek.

**IX. The Party, 1914**

"_I didn't tell anybody, you're like a sister to me. I'd never betray you, m'Lady." "__Well then you're not like my sisters."_ – Conversation between Ruby and Lady Mary Margaret Blanchard

Everything was about to change. The assassination of the Archduke left the entire continent at war, but things had not escalated quite as far as everyone had feared. Yet. As her cousin David kept reminding them, things were not escalating terribly _yet_.

The English would just stay out of it, if they'd any pride. That was Mary Margaret's take, anyway. Besides, she had more than enough to do on the home-front at Downton Abbey without worrying about all of France, Germany and Austria. Ella was recovering, and if there was any justice in the world their father would give Mr. Herman the sack.

No decision had been passed, months had elapsed, but he should not have taken her to the reading of the ballots without their father's permission. That Ella had tricked him into it was his single saving grace. Mary Margaret thought, after the initial shock the family felt at seeing Ella becoming political, that her forays into public squares would end. Imagine the horror of seeing David carrying her darling little sister's body, forehead bloodied, into the house. It was a miracle he'd been in town at the time. An act of providence, to hear the house staff tell it.

But David... he would not be satisfied playing the charming knight to Ella's damsel, oh no. He'd gone and proposed. To Mary Margaret. Marriage. He was quite the man of the hour when it happened, and she'd begged a little time to consider. They were due in London for the season, he'd have his answer when they returned.

Well, they were back now. London was not hospitable to Lady Mary Margaret this year, word of the Mr. Djinn scandal spread like wild-fire. Mary Margaret trusted Ruby second only to herself, and if she and Ruby hadn't told... it could only be Isobel.

Isobel - who'd stolen Sir Rumford Gold away (not that Mary Margaret claimed to want the limping, self-made, virulently acerbic thing.) But now, after Isobel publicizing a family scandal? She was certainly not going to sit by idly and watch as the pair of them became engaged unopposed when she, herself, might not receive another offer for several months; certainly not until the Mr. Djinn gossip died down.

Regina... the thought of her step-mother made Mary Margaret's blood boil. After eighteen years of nothing, Regina the Usurper was pregnant. Dr. Whale confirmed it in her absence, and she returned from London – happily cavorting with her aunt to buy more time before making a reply to David – to resume her work in breaking the entail.

Because that was the real question: not how and why was she pregnant after nearly twenty years, but whether or not she'd finally bear Leopold Blanchard a son and heir. Mary Margaret disliked the idea of her father's estate going to that woman's son, her alleged half-brother, even less than she liked the idea of it going to Mr. David Blanchard of Manchester. But, she supposed, at least the child wold be family. Its American mother may never be one of them, but her son would be a Blanchard by blood and name alike.

First things first: a few sly words to Gold, letting him know that Isobel mocked him behind his back and viewed their entire courtship some sort of base joke would suffice to punish her younger sister. The man was mad about Isobel, looked upon her like something of a miracle, but he – though Regina, and by extension Lord Grantham, approved of him – was not the most unobjectionable match. She'd heard him once offer to let Isobel go, to find some young _beau_ who deserved her...

Men like that were easy to lie to. They believed exactly what they wanted to believe, and that was going to work out in Mary Margaret's favor today. Having Sir George Gaston put in a surprise appearance was the finishing touch – he was recently recalled from abroad, arrived dressed in his officer's best, and stuck to Lady Isobel like glue – entirely at Mary Margaret's request. What could she say for herself? A lifetime of warring with Regina had equipped her well.

Besides, it wasn't forever. He'd realize Isobel was a plain, dull thing with no greater hope than he, and if he still wanted her then he would have her. It was not her sister's eternal happiness she wanted to crush, though that was tempting, she merely couldn't have the pair of them getting engaged while she still had unresolved business with David.

The lie finished brilliantly, with Sir Rumford driving off in a huff, and Mary Margaret turned her attentions toward her cousin.

David wasn't sure what he would do if Lord Grantham had a son.

Lady Grantham had asked him once what he would do if the entail were ever set aside in Mary Margaret's favor, and David had answered her honestly. He would respond with as much grace as he could muster and wish his cousin well. Now, though, refused and smitten as he was, he had to wonder if that was not, entirely, the point to begin with. Lady Grantham seemed adamant that he _not_ marry one of her step-daughters, and he had to assume that the whole family felt the same way. Mary Margaret did, certainly.

He thought she loved him, but he'd been taken in. She loved that he would have her father's lands and money, and when that became less certain she abandoned him.

Lady Grantham was pregnant. It might be a son. Without the certainty of his inheritance, Mary Margaret refused him.

Damn that stubborn, beautiful, brave woman. She'd sooner die a spinster than marry someone she was told to, not that he wanted her to marry him simply for the sake of propriety. If she wouldn't have him as a solicitor living in Manchester, then she did not love him the way that he loved her. And David did love her – would have loved her even if she was chasing bobbins in a factory somewhere.

The indomitable spirit and refusal to cower was what he admired most about his cousin. She was devastatingly beautiful, yes, but beauty in and of itself was not always a blessing. Regina, his most unlikely ally, had warned him of this. That Mary Margaret, no matter her feelings, would not have him as long as there was any chance of ending the entail in her favor.

The pregnancy simply proved the truth he hadn't wanted to admit.

Lord Grantham said, when the news of the pregnancy first came out to the immediate family a week ago, that he would like to make some allowance for David if the child was a boy, and if David did not inherit Downton. He would like to, but he could not. David knew it well, too – he'd certainly done enough work for Lady Grantham and Lady Mary Margaret as they bickered over the entail.

Leopold was a good man; it wasn't his fault his house was filled with a menagerie of female wolves and great-cats. The Earl was kind-hearted and mild-mannered; his greatest ambition was to see the estate remain intact.

And it was a noble ambition. David might have laughed at it a year ago, but he'd come to see the power of the legacy – had rebuilt and refurbished over half the cottages on the property himself. He cared greatly for Downton, and all its inhabitants. Nothing was certain. Nothing, except that Mary Margaret did not love him, and that broke his heart.

David wasn't sure what to do with himself next, but that decision was made for him as the Earl stood and read a courier's telegraph: The war in Europe, the Great War, was escalating faster than expected. England would send troops – the young men must enlist immediately. David relished it, really. He'd rather be fodder for the guns and freeze in the trenches than endure another battle of manners and dinner-table attrition with his fickle cousin here at Downton.

**X. The War, 1914**

"_My lords, ladies, and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please? Because I very much regret to announce that we are now at war with Germany." _– Lord Grantham

The war in Europe could wait, Regina had more important things on her plate.

First of all, she had to ensure Dr. Whale remained loyal. He'd helped her fabricate a pregnancy, and subsequent miscarriage. She'd chosen the day after the Garden Party, so that they could all stop worrying about a new heir and focus on the problem of Mary Margaret instead. The week "recovering" alone in her chamber gave her the time she needed to think.

Her eldest step-daughter was ruined, or near enough to it. Neither she, the maid, nor Isobel noticed Regina lurking in the bachelor's corridor the night they dragged Mr. Djinn's body back from Mary Margaret's chamber. She'd been engaged in a tiny infidelity, an Irishman called Graham Humbert who sometimes hunted with her husband's party, and overheard them talking about the circumstances of Djinn's passing.

Regina hadn't known Mary Margaret had it in her, but writing a letter to the Turkish Embassy gave her no end of wicked pleasure all the same.

If the girl would only stop snooping around with the entail and marry somebody, then their shadow-war could finally end. It was, in fact, exhausting. But Regina would not be put out of Downton by the daughter of the man she'd given her best years to, not by the daughter who'd cost her everything by telling secrets to the late Cora Millcroft. Mary Margaret deserved worse, but Regina would settle for keeping the ebony-haired beauty apart from David. As long as she was never mistress of Downton, Regina saw no reason why her own life of luxury and liberal allowance should dry up after Leopold dropped off.

All of that was simple: exactly as she had set out to do, so she did. Sir Gold, the snake, had made things increasingly complex.

She'd approached him some time after his little prank on Mary Margaret in the drawing room, asking if he would buy the story of Lady Mary Margaret's sullied virtue and lies. He had bought it, and she'd signed a contract giving him exclusive rights to publication. But Gold, the magnificent bastard that he was, had no intention of printing the thing. And he'd legally gagged Regina with his contract, to add insult to injury. She'd been played. And she had to be careful enough anyway that no one discover she was the actual leak in Downton Abbey, so her retaliation would have to be cutting, devastating, and sneaky.

How was she to know the cold-hearted mercenary would actually _like_ their curly-headed Isobel? That was the only logical reason he would oppose her - it certainly wasn't out of any sense of fidelity for the family or Lady Mary Margaret.

But Mary Margaret, very accidentally, did something right. She sent Gold away the day of the Garden Party – he hadn't proposed to Isobel as the middle-daughter had anticipated he might, and hadn't come calling since the Party. He must be livid, whatever lie Lady Mary Margaret told him clearly hit the bulls eye.

Regina knew Rum, though. Knew his type. He viewed Lady Isobel as his own, and he'd be back once his temper cooled. David, too, was an easy book to read. The pregnancy scared Mary Margaret away from him, and he was done playing her step-daughter's games. He enlisted, and returned several months later – with news of a fiance.

When Rum Gold returned, he did so with considerably more venom and swagger. He swore and threatened to expose Regina's entire scheme to Lord Grantham if she did not ensure that he and her step-daughter were married. He would not propose or woo the girl properly; none of them deserved that consideration any more - they were all mixed up in the scandal together, as far as he was concerned. But he would have Isobel, and Regina would see to it or she would suffer.

Typical, really, that he thought he could bully her. It was his own hubris that did him in, he should have been more careful. With a little cajoling, a few greased palms, and a rather unexpected alliance with Mary Margaret - whose situation stood on a precipice between very bad and irrevocably dire - Regina fixed everything. Just after New Year of 1916, every newspaper in the country, including Gold's, ran the following:

SIR R. W. GOLD ANNOUNCES HIS ENGAGEMNT TO MARRY LADY M. M. BLANCHARD, OF DOWNTON ABBEY.

Let him wriggle his way out of that one and regain his darling little Isobel. His despair would make Regina very, very happy.

_To Be Continued in Part II_


	2. Chapter 2

**XI The Hospital, 1918**

"_Before the war, I believed my life had value. I suppose I should like to feel that again." –_ Earl Leopold Blanchard, Lord Grantham

Downton Abbey was Leopold's life work. He'd told David that once, as they were out walking the property. The young heir hadn't loved the house then – saw only bricks, mortar, and bills piling up when the stone cracked in winter. But he would love it – one day. David, somehow always at ease even when the conversation turned to money, had asked him if the estate was ever near to ruin.

That seemed a prudent question to Lord Grantham, and it was the first time David showed any interest in managing the Abbey. He'd answered it honestly. The estate had very nearly fallen by the way-side in the 1880s, until he took steps to preserve it.

"What saved it?" David had asked him.

"Regina."

It was the truth twenty years ago, and it was the truth today. Regina was a surrogate mother to all his children, his girls and his land, and he'd no right to question the small touches here and there that reflected her tastes and temperaments. She must have her own way wherever possible, he at least owed her that.

Leopold did not love his wife; not as he'd loved the first Lady Grantham who gave him his three precious girls, but he did like her tolerably well, most of the time. He wept bitterly for three days when she lost their child after the Garden Party. Yes. She must have a good life, have exactly what she liked and never want for anything within the realm of propriety, because she'd suffered to give him the only thing's he'd ever needed: a legacy at Downton Abbey.

Oddly, he'd told the girls much the same thing he'd told David. Well, he told it to Mary Margaret, at least. If it was wrong for a father to favor one child over the others, Lord Grantham did not want to know it. Mary Margaret was the spitting image of his late wife, and he loved her best – would spare her pain at any expense, except for the dissolution of their dynasty.

His darling daughter accused him of not taking up her part in the inheritance process. He owed her an explanation, no matter how much it pained him to give it. So he told her the truth: if he'd made a fortune and bought the house, she'd have it without a second thought. But that was not the case. The Grantham fortune was the work of ages, a labor which gave birth to a legacy, and he did not have the right to destroy their work, to impoverish their dynasty.

He owned nothing, merely played the part of custodian for a time. One day, maybe soon, it would be David's turn to reign.

Mary Margaret understood. She'd always loved Downton more than her sisters, who saw it as something of a cage, and it was Mary Margaret who came the closest to matching his own solemn sense of wonder for the place.

If only she wouldn't bicker with Regina so... But he had an obligation to take up his wife's interests, one he must keep until his dying day. In the hope of suffering as few casualties as possible in their domestic war, he often turned a blind eye to their little jibes and public displays of aggression between his wife and his favorite daughter. Only now the rest world was at war too, and they must find some shred of peace amongst themselves until their boys came home again.

It was too disrespectful to always have his household biting its own neck when the men on the continent were giving up everything to preserve them and their way of life from the encroaching Germans. They took a few months to settle things after the Garden Party, but – and he dared not even ask for the details – it seemed that Mary Margaret and Lady Grantham had finally forged some sort of truce between them.

Now if only the Europeans could see reason... The continent was burning. He wanted to fight, but the army wouldn't have him. It wounded his old soldier's pride to be rejected for active duty, but he _would_ find a way to be of use to his country. Leopold swore it, both to himself and to the legacy of Downton Abbey.

He wore the Colonel's brass and sashes, begrudgingly, and stayed to run the county. They wanted him to boost the morale at home; the word "honorary" was bandied about mercilessly, much to his shame.

Leopold found his opportunity to do something meaningful when the casualties started coming. They had a small hospital in their village, but with an infusion of funds and personnel it might be something grand. It was Miss Swan, a guest of Ella's, who first brought it to his attention – and though she was a woman, a liberal, a progressive and a suffragette, the idea had too many merits to ignore.

England needed a hospital more than it needed another puffed-up Colonel, and their village practitioner had room to grow; if he'd the money to furnish care, who was he to deny the men? Thanks again to Regina's dowry, he could give in the soldiers' time of need. Utter simplicity.

**XII The Price, 1916**

"_Let us be thankful, Lady Grantham, that we have finally made peace with David." "I agree, my Lord. Thank God Sir Rumford distracted Mary Margaret at exactly the right moment."_ – Lord and Lady Grantham

"Are you shocked by my bold and modern values?" he'd asked Belle once, upon making a small blunder that exposed his upbringing.

"Rum, don't flatter yourself. It takes a great deal more than that to shock me," she'd replied, as always – smiling. That was when he first knew he liked her, before he'd dared to hope she might return those feelings.

A little hope was a dangerous thing. He was not a romantic, but Belle forced him to concede that the heart might exist for something other than pumping blood. And now, because of her scheme, his wouldn't stop hurting.

Regina had outmaneuvered him in their game, and he had paid the price. A price he was still paying. Exclusivity, he'd said. Don't sell to my competitors. Fool: he'd trapped himself as surely as he'd trapped Lady Grantham by purchasing her story about the Djinn scandal, and now they were stuck in a three-year stalemate.

Mary Margaret would not budge. She'd blotted her social ledger, in a very serious way, and needed a suitable marriage to mend her fences. He'd endeavored to prove himself an entirely unsuitable partner for her, despite his money, but the ice-cold mercenary would not give him up.

She knew, somehow, that he could not break their engagement outright. Probably Regina told her. But in so knowing, she refused to yield her claim. He was powerful, rich, and well on his way to a peerage. Lady Mary Margaret intended to smooth off his rough edges and make something of him, so he retaliated with further prickling.

Naturally, his limp exempted him from service. They might have made an officer of him again, as he'd been in South Africa, but his leg was too bad for any meaningful work abroad and he did not fancy the kinds of empty pomp and uniform that men like Lord Grantham were reduced to. Instead, he focused on his newspapers. The peerage viewed him as a scandal-monger, and felt his duty (and theirs) lay in boosting morale at home. He viewed himself as an entrepreneur, and felt hist duty lie with the investors, and – begrudgingly – with the truth. The truth had never been a good color for him, newsprint came too close to black-and-white for comfort sometimes, whereas he was more a muddled Davy's gray kind of man.

Regina, of all the enemies he'd accumulated in his life, (and he did make a superlative enemy, in his own estimation) probably anticipated his movements best. She'd caught him in his own trap, which was rare, but she'd also convinced her step-daughter to play along... and that was impressive. He'd underestimated her once, but wouldn't do so again.

He'd rung the Countess at Downton the day her wicked notice hit the press. Demanded to know how she intended to enforce such a blatant lie, and insisted she redact it. She replied that it was not a lie, that he was now engaged to be married to Lady Mary Margaret, and if he doubted that claim he could just ask the girl himself. She tried to convince him that it was for the best, that he claimed the prize of Lord Grantham's clan, but he wasn't having it.

Gold might have underestimated Regina's cunning, but she'd underestimated his interest in Lady Isobel. When he assured her that he would not play along and help torment her pale-skinned, ebony-haired step-daughter simply for their mutual amusement, she'd sounded sincerely disappointed. But that was months before the Garden Party.

After that, the matter came to a head when she published her fraudulent engagement announcement.

He called her every name he could think of, but she wouldn't relent. And she had a very delicate, but impossibly difficult defense: his contract. Gold could not disclose his source without voiding the gag order, and he could not void it when that left Regina free to take news of the Djinn scandal to the next-highest bidder.

If word got out, not only would it ruin Mary Margaret, it would most likely damage his Belle. The cost of this shadow-war was astronomical, but – as his future wife – Belle was entitled to be in his debt.

So, between running his businesses and insulting Mary Margaret, he planned. If he broke off the engagement with Mary Margaret himself, Lord Grantham and the rest of the world would know why. And, making no answer more convincing that the gossip already circulating, he would be summarily banned from Downton as a cad and a traitor. That wouldn't be too far from the truth – he was a cad – but it also meant that he'd forfeit Belle again.

Regina would not intercede on his behalf with Lord Grantham so he could annul the engagement on better terms. Without Lady Grantham's aid, his rejection of the eldest Blanchard girl would still bar him from Belle.

Devious, flirtatious liar though she was, he'd not see her bandied about in society like a plucked bird, swatted around from gossip to gossip for her sister's sins. No, Belle's punishment would come from him, privately, in their home. To be his wife in all ways, but never to know his kindness again... that was what awaited his blue-eyed beauty. If only he could contrive a way to take her back again.

No matter how he'd considered it, all roads led to him forfeiting his queen, and that was the one sacrifice he was not willing to make. Regina had played him to a stalemate, had proven herself a rough diamond amongst the rabble. If one of them broke the contract, all bets would be hedged, but until then they both waltzed their pieces from space to space (the same pattern every day) and waited for something to change.

He focused his efforts more on the fiance than the mastermind. It became clear after a little observation that Mary Margaret had no further end-game in sight than securing her cousin, Mr. David Blanchard, and tossing Gold by the wayside.

As he had no assurance of that day ever coming, especially since David was deployed and reputedly engaged himself, Gold continued his torment. He embarrassed her in public, he berated her in private, he let her see him loan her friends money only to blackmail them later.

The problem was that she simply did not care. Mary Margaret had no emotional ties to Gold, did not especially like any of her friends; though his bad behavior reflected poorly on her, his money suited her, so she made-do.

Gold preferred small weapons: needles, pens, the fine point of a deal. But Mary Margaret did not respond to small weapons. He briefly considered bringing out a warhorse, but – as always – he still had his end-game with Belle to consider.

If David did not return from war, or returned and did not want her, the frigid mercenary planned to use Gold as her escape plan. Well, he was no woman's second, and savior to only one. Or would have been, if she'd let him. No course of fate could ever prevail upon him to bind himself to Lady Mary Margaret. He knew her better now, after three years of gnashing teeth, and he'd rather be dead.

The single point upon which they did agree was that Isobel had wronged him, and he ought not forgive her lightly. Of course, for him to engage Belle in play, his peach would have to return to society from her aunt's house in Bath... Clever girl, going into hiding after the Garden Party. But then, she was always the bright one in the family.

Bright, but frightfully brave – to her detriment. Belle should not have fished with such compelling bait if she wasn't prepared to reel a shark in. She shouldn't assume, either, that just because she'd tossed him back and rowed away he wasn't still circling at a distance, hungry.

Ensuring Belle couldn't refuse him when the time came would take a subtle hand. He did not publish the Djinn piece for her sake alone, but the contract would also serve as an excellent piece of blackmail, kept in reserve, to get his rotten peach down the aisle. Wasn't it always that way in the epic tales? A man's greatest weakness proves to be his greatest strength, before hubris chucked him off the edge of what he'd assumed to be a harmless anthill?

Gold played a long game. He looked enough moves ahead to anticipate trouble, and always checked under his feet for a potential land mine before soldiering on for the day. This scheme would end in his marriage to the _right_ sister; it was not a tragedy, not for him. Gold had always believed in the power of self-fulfilling destiny; most self-made-men did.

It pained him to think of how confident he'd been at the beginning of this entanglement.

"We used to know each other so well, Gold. Has it really come down to this?" Regina'd asked him on their first and last telephone call.

"It seems it has, Lady Grantham. I'm going to be out of this in no time, and nothing between us will change."

"We shall see."

"You can keep trying dearie, you're never going to beat me."

Those words seemed shallow now, after three years of trying with nothing but the same endless shuffle to show for himself. He disliked the existing set of rules; it was time for a new game.

**XIII The Trenches, 1916**

"_War has a way of distinguishing between the things that matter and the things that don't." –_ Lt. David Blanchard

Belle was heartbroken when Rum didn't make her an offer at the Garden Party. She'd been busy playing the dutiful hostess and avoiding Sir Gaston (the sting of that betrayal felt like nothing compared to Rum throwing in his lot with her sister, but at the time...). She couldn't imagine what she'd done to displease Gold, or how she could have misinterpreted his intent.

It seemed a settled thing. He would ask her father's permission, and they would have a story book romance. Well, maybe not a story book exactly. He was still in trade, old enough to set at least a couple of tongues wagging, and he approached every day with a sort of devilish delight. She liked his darkness, and his wit. But most of all, she liked that he listened to her. Really took the time to pay her a meaningful compliment. He called her lovely, even though no one else did, but he also thought she was clever and funny.

When he didn't respond to any of her letters, she knew something had changed between them. But the world was at war, the newspaper offices were all the way in London, and she was stranded at Downton. He had to work. She knew that when she chose him – he was a man with a profession. So she waited.

The day she saw the announcement of his engagement to Mary Margaret, she'd gone to her room and sobbed into her pillow. How could he? How could _she_? And when, precisely, had they made the arrangements?

When her family went to London for the season, she retreated to Bath. Her mother's sister lived there, a widow, and she didn't mind a guest. The season turned into a year, then two. When she came back to Downton, Ella was volunteering as an amateur in Dr. Whale's clinic and their father was hosting a Miss Emma Swan – some great hospital reformer from the city.

Belle wanted to be useful too, like them. And she wanted a means to forget. Whiling away her time with her aunt hadn't amounted to much more than pining, and Belle refused to continue trudging along ankle-deep in regrets. Strangely, one of the things she'd liked most about Gold presented the solution: driving.

She missed driving around the countryside, but – even though he'd never take her out again – that didn't mean she had to give it up completely. She'd started lessons with Mr. Herman immediately.

"That's better," Thomas cheered as Lady Isobel managed to shift gears in the family car without jostling them both too terribly. She had a rough hand behind the wheel, but was learning quickly. She'd thrown herself into learning how to do it properly. It wasn't his place to comment, but Isobel suspected that he knew their driving lessons were the only thing that kept her from crying.

"I do think I'm getting better, don't you?" she asked the chauffeur.

"To a point, m'Lady. If you could just get the clutch right down to the floor."

"I am!"

"Not quite, m'Lady."

"It doesn't seem to want to go," she groaned. Sometimes Belle felt as though she'd never get it right.

"I think it does if you ask it properly," he shot back. Belle could see why Ella liked this man. Their friendship was something of an anomaly around the house, but they all had their own favorites among the staff. Mary Margaret certainly managed to monopolize poor Ruby Lucas half the time. Belle vented her frustration into shifting, and managed to do it smoothly for a change. "Very good, m'Lady," Thomas praised. "You'll be putting me out of a job soon."

"I imagine the call will put you all out of work soon," Belle remarked off-handedly, focusing herself on steering. All the young men were clamoring for service, but their positions in Downton kept the bulk of them from voluntarily enlisting. David had signed up straight-away, as he must. He was the heir of a title, and they needed men like him to muster officers.

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," the neatly-liveried driver replied. He looked grim, and she wondered if she hadn't spoken a bit too hastily.

Each and every member of their household, from the lowliest kitchen maid to her own dear father – all of them were shrouded in a never-ending cloak of misery. Just the other day, young Ella – for whom the world was spun anew each dawn of golden thread – had word from one of their family friends that a one-time beau of hers was missing in action.

"Sometimes it feels like all the men I've ever danced with are dead," Ella told her. It broke Belle's heart to hear it. That was the thing about the truth: it stung where it ought to have soothed.

Only now, Ella wanted to be a nurse. Belle worried that she wasn't ready, and that the harshness of it all would snap her like a twig. The girl had lived in a gilded cage, made thrilling by clandestine meddling with politics, and everything she'd ever attempted had gone to her liking. Ella had no concept of difficulties or failings.

The maid, Astrid, had left for a new job as a secretary after only one interview; that was Ella's doing. And the suffragettes in the village (before retiring their cause out of respect to the soldiers) circulated almost entirely unmolested; no one would dare question the Earl's daughter's friends. Even when things went badly, Mr. Herman brought her home safely. And the one time Thomas hadn't been able to protect her, David had swooped in on the wings of providence. In all her life, she'd suffered nothing more than a scolding and a bad lump on her head.

The real world was not as nice a place as Ella's imagined, but Belle wished with all her heart that reality would bend to Ella's fantasy once again. Anything to spare the child, who charmed everyone she met, another few months of suffering an adult's torment.

In an adult's world, the man you loved might be a monster masquerading amongst the maidens. Your older sister might swoop in and steal him anyway, even though he'd said... And the roguish pranks that amused you at another's expense would cut deeper than any blade when they were cruelly turned back at you without so much as a parting glance. No amount of wanting could bridge the rift, because that man would treat you like you were dead. In Belle's world, all the doubt and self-questioning would eat her up inside if she didn't find a way to vent the disappointment. A way other than sobbing.

Disappointment was one thing Belle knew entirely too much about, and for one with a scholar's mind always thirsty for more knowledge, _too much_ knowledge was something of an oxymoron. She didn't know what else to do, except duck her head and hunker down for the impact of Mary Margaret and Sir Rumford's wedding. The man hadn't called on them at the Abbey for some time – he'd placed only one telephone call to Regina, toward the beginning – and then she'd run away to Bath. As far as Belle knew, he spent all his time in London: working.

Newsprint was a dirty kind of trade, one which required a bit of hands-on finesse from its proprietors, but his remoteness also freed him to court her sister privately. Mary Margaret spent nearly all her time in London, had done for the last three years, running around to the few house parties and amusements still operating. Belle imagined that the pair of them were having a grand old time – they were, after all, essentially the same.

Both of them liked to play pranks. Gold had developed his sense of irony and tuned it more finely than her sister, but that aptitude would certainly come to Mary Margaret in time. She was marrying an excellent tutor.

Thoughts like that drove Belle back to motoring. She practiced every day for three weeks, and Thomas finally declared her ready to take the car onto the main roads independently. A nice tool about the countryside would help, set the tyres to spinning.

Mary Margaret, finally back from London since the Concert Benefit, did not like Belle's new penchant for the road. "What is this driving mania?" Mary Margaret was always asking.

Belle insisted it would be useful; they wouldn't always have an able-bodied chauffeur with the War calling more and more each day.

"Besides," she always finished their argument with the same quip, "if Ella can be a nurse, then I can be a chauffeur." Mary Margaret couldn't contradict that. It had been her own words with their father that freed Ella to pursue this new profession in the first place – one of Mary Margaret's few redeeming moments, as far as Belle could see.

But t was not enough to make Belle forgive the wickedly selfish theft of Sir Rumford Gold.

She thought herself pathetic, really. Three years later, and she was still grieving the man who might have been her fiance. At least she was coping.

A broken heart was the most painful of afflictions. It made her sick, haunted her dreams, and destroyed her days. Love must certainly have killed more than any enemy artillery. And driving? Driving was her one means to forget. She liked to feel the tyres spin, to feel the vibrations beneath her feet.

Belle wasn't hiding from the pain any more, nor from her family. She embraced it, an acknowledged the strength she'd gained from suffering. They were a household at war, as much as a nation, and all Belle could do was wait for the others' powder kegs to ignite. Once that happened, she could emerge and deal with whomever was left standing.

Yes, lurking in the trenches was best for now. Her sister and her step-mother had forged some sort of tremulous alliance, but that wouldn't hold much past the New Year now that Mary Margaret was back from London again. It would be turn especially vitriolic if Regina's attentions to David's fiance continued. She didn't want to be anywhere near that cross-fire, when their union inevitably fell. And Mary Margaret would not stop lobbing insults at Belle, letting them land where they would and kicking up a mess of gossip-mongers in the meanwhile.

She thought, one night, that she could choose to fight. Now that she knew how to drive, she could steal a car, drive to London, and demand that Rum give her some sort of explanation – three years too late. If she felt extremely forward, she might even slap him. But that would accomplish nothing. Supposing he did throw-over her sister for her at the last minute, their father would never agree to a second engagement. And would she still accept a man who treated her so badly? That thought, at least, stayed her. She had pride enough to to beg, at least.

But Belle did love him, even now. Felt sick with it. Best to simply dig in deep, secure her position, and hope that one day their family would find its peace.

**XIV The Fiance, 1917**

"_She refused him when he had nothing, and wanted him back when he was heir again. I'm not sure Lady Mary Margaret has a heart to break." _– Gossip overheard by Ruby Lucas, Maid

Mary Margaret could remember keenly the day she'd heard from David's mother that he was engaged. It happened during one of his leaves from the front, or when the companies were mustering – while the entire family was in London.

"He writes that he is engaged to be married to a Ms. Abigail Katharine Nolan," Mrs. Blanchard had told them.

"Well, we all knew it would happen eventually," her step-mother trumpeted. She'd been pleased he wanted to marry outside the family – of course she was, it was another outsider for her to indoctrinate.

"It all seems rather hurried..." Mrs. Blanchard had added, sensing the fatalism and foreboding of the rest of the Blanchard clan. The woman, for all her idyllic simplicity, could not be completely unaware that there was a certain expectation for him to make an offer to Mary Margaret instead of this stranger.

The truth – not that many outside her immediate circle knew it – was that David _had_ made an offer to Mary Margaret; she'd just been too blind to see it for what it was – a genuine proposal – and rejected him out of hand. His position as heir had been in question at the time... Regina was pregnant, and it might have been a son. Even breaking the entail hadn't seemed so impossible then. She'd had plenty of reasons to refuse, truthfully.

But it didn't change the way David felt, and he'd asked her anyway. By the time she realized that she really did love him, it was too late. He'd resolved not to have a wife who would not love him with or without his rank. They quarreled incessantly for weeks before he enlisted. He'd vowed to return to Manchester after the war, insisted he was done with the lot of them. David's anger abated, eventually, but she only discovered that when his mother shared another letter with the rest of the family.

Mrs. Blanchard had informed her father that David was bringing this fiance to Downton while he was home on leave. So the threat to return to Manchester, at least, had blown over with little harm.

She'd been busy in London at the time of the announcement, enforcing her engagement with Sir Gold despite his efforts to the contrary. He wanted out of it, even a blind woman could see that, but Regina assured her that he wouldn't break their very public engagement by his own hand. She said he'd try to get her to sever their ties, and he had tried. He did try. He was still trying.

Mary Margaret would not have come back to Downton if she'd known David and his precious Miss Nolan would be waiting. Regina could have caught her with a telegram, spared her the train and the humiliation; they were allies now, mostly. Especially where Sir Rumford and Isobel were concerned. But not, it seemed, in the matter of Mary Margaret's introduction to the woman David found to replace her.

The Hospital Benefit Concert had been a trying night. Ruby'd held her while she cried in her room, put one last pin in her hair, and sent her to the trenches in flawless war paint.

She and Ruby would always choose to fight. The lady and the maid held that trait in common, and no matter how many flights of stairs divided them, neither of them was the type to buckle under stress. David might not be hers, but she had Gold, and she was determined to show her cousin and her family that his engagement left her unaffected. She would succeed, somehow.

And Isobel... she was still heart broken about the situation with Sir Rumford, even though she never said anything; it might have pleased her to know that Isobel was divided from the man she wanted, if the same slip of paper wasn't also keeping her bound to Gold. But the scandal with Mr. Djinn had spread because of Isobel's gossip, and Mary Margaret's engagement was both her sister's punishment and her own salvation. As Regina put it with her Americanism: win-win.

Damned contract. She'd been a fool to be taken in by Djinn. And damn him for dying, too. All the same, Mary Margaret had chosen well in taking Gold for her fiance. The old imp couldn't extract himself from her grasp without stirring up a maelstrom of complications – that part was Regina's genius at play – and he owned more than enough property to keep her happy some day.

The plan worked beautifully, except that Isobel got to watch David and his Miss Nolan stick pins in her pride all night.

The orchestra played some tired old chamber piece while the patrons and guests socialized when David walked in, fashionably late. He looked handsome as ever in his regimental reds, with thin blonde woman at his side. She wore an atrocious dress – green with beading and a matching circlet upon her head – it was the kind of thing her step-mother favored, _nouveau riche_. She'd said as much to Ruby, when she got the chance.

"So, that's my replacement. I suppose looks aren't everything," she commented to Regina, after taking stock of things.

"I think she seems rather sweet," here step-mother replied. "I'm afraid meeting us all together must be very intimidating."

"I hope so."

Their truce was not going to last if they could not at least agree to severely dislike her cousin's new play-thing. When Mary Margaret's eyes met David's across the room, she'd made a nervous attempt at smiling, but he turned away and gave her the cold shoulder. He was still angry with her for rejecting him, then. She supposed he should be.

The four of them awkwardly made their little introductions, but despite Mary Margaret's slight provocations David did not rise to take her bait. In the end, they both agreed that enough time had elapsed for their friendship to be at peace again.

Dinner, drinks, dancing... the sheer normalcy of it all mocked her pain. She wanted to scream, send the little Miss Abigail Katharine Nolan away, and force David to stay. He wouldn't talk about the War, wouldn't even allude to it. It was like the War didn't exist for as long as he stayed in Downton Abbey, which was how she knew how desperately he needed to escape.

He had to leave the next day, on an early train.

Mary Margaret knew she'd stunned the entire wait-staff by waking up before dawn and meeting her cousin on the platform for his return to the front. Everyone else had made their goodbyes the previous night, but not she. This was the first time they'd been alone since she'd rejected his proposal at the Garden Party, and since she could neither tell him how she felt nor bodily restrain him from the dangers abroad, Mary Margaret satisfied herself by entrusting him with a childhood keepsake. She'd owned the small, finely stitched white pony toy her entire life, and it gave her some comfort knowing David would be able to keep it in his pocket while he fought.

They'd parted as friends. Oh, how she hated that word. _Friends_. And everything might have turned out well for her, if not for the rather disturbing news Regina had neglected to share: Miss Nolan planned to stay in Downton, as Mrs. Blanchard's guest.

They'd all been stuck for weeks, waiting for news from David, and without any pressure valve to let off their steam. Mary Margaret hated waiting around for news from the front. She had nowhere else to turn, so she'd spent her nights cooped up with Regina. Regina, of all people, at least understood the precarious nature of her engagement to Gold.

It was the one topic on which they agreed whole-heartedly: she must marry Sir Gold to preserve the family dignity, to cover up Isobel's gossip about the Djinn scandal, and to show her cousin that she was _not_ so hasty in refusing him – other offers came her way, all the time, every day. (If only that _were_ the case.)

But Regina still insisted upon courting the friendship of Miss Nolan, and that was one point on which Mary Margaret would not agree to make peace.

A year of poisoned words and building resentment passed in bitter haste after Miss Abigail Nolan came. She kept mostly to Mrs. Blanchard's cottage, but fraternization was inevitable. Slowly, things began to change.

The biggest changes were easy to see by 1918. They converted the Abbey into a convalescent home for officers, and now had the use of only their most central rooms. Problems started immediately. Their great reformer, Miss Emma Swan, challenged the make and manner of the convalescent home at every turn – didn't like to see Regina at her leisure to order military staff about.

Mary Margaret liked Emma tremendously. Regina had always ruled undisputed by any – including Lord Grantham – when it came to the particulars of Downton Abbey. In that respect alone, she reigned as queen. But Miss Swan changed things; dictated which rooms ought to be used for the beds, where to place the men for leisure, how to best accommodate dining... and she might not have been so good at undermining Regina's reluctant acceptance of the hospital plan, except that the blonde-haired rebel's ideas were always well-reasoned, economic, and – above all – practical.

Although... the servants did seem a bit skittish about the chain of command with Emma ordering the hospital staff about. Dr. Whale obeyed Regina, most of the time, and Ella – their prodigal nurse – obeyed Dr. Whale. Everyone else listened to Emma. The servants were expected to do their part, converting the rooms to dormitories and laundering linens, it was only natural they'd take orders from Emma eventually. And, as predicted, that irked Lady Grantham.

The rest of the household carried on. Her father moped about miserably, not quite the master of his own house nor an active member in the army. It hurt his pride, she knew, but he puffed his chest and looked proud as ever to see their home turned to such a noble purpose. For him to look like that, Mary Margaret could endure any amount of inconvenience and loss of privacy.

After a while, it all seemed very humdrum and day-top-day. Isobel, of course, made herself quite the little darling taking care of the officer's daily needs. And Ella was a full-fledged nurse, working every day from dawn to dusk. Regina bickered with Emma nonstop, compliments of her father, and Miss Nolan... Well, Abigail was not an entirely deplorable creature.

Mary Margaret and Abigail had at least one thing in common: they shed tears and prayed for the safe return of the same man. That, if nothing else, allowed them to bond. She'd expected to spend her year of waiting on David at odds with the blonde girl, but her step-mother had – in a feat surprising to no one but herself, it seemed – worn out her welcome long before Miss Abigail Katharine Nolan had.

If only she could discover something unsavory about Abigail... then David would leave her, she could break off her sham of an engagement to Sir Rumford (that should please the beast), and then... well, she wasn't sure. If David did leave Miss Nolan, Mary Margaret wasn't sure what would convince him to propose again to her. Either way, she'd take her fences one at a time. First Abigail, then David. And a bit of Regina and Isobel in the middle, if she must detour.

For a few weeks, she searched incessantly through Miss Nolan's history. Abigail was the daughter of a London solicitor, had no ancestors in the peerage. Her family was well monied, but not so well that it would float the Abbey through difficult times if David's financial management didn't come up to scratch. She even asked Jefferson for help, but he'd laughed his insipid cackle over the telephone and hung up on her without saying anything.

She would endure. She must. The other woman might have taken the fiance she wanted, but she had another to keep on a lead and away from darling Isobel and a rapidly heating tension with Regina, who was simultaneously rowing with Miss Swan. One could not fight a war on two fronts, never mind in the multi-faceted mess they'd made of things. The Germans were proving that point to excess, lately. She needed an ally, and barring that she needed a new weapon to defend herself against her step-mother; preferably one that would also be difficult on Isobel.

Sir Rumford Gold was long due for a visit to Downton, and – so long as she sweet talked her father into giving the invitation just this once – he could not turn her down.

**XV The Visitor, 1917**

"_You're stronger than you look, sister._" – Mr. G. Leroy to Lady Isobel

Gold had been away from Downton for entirely too long, and while he did not like to linger in a convalescent home at his mock-fiance's insistence, he did need to change his tactics if he wanted to shake the girl loose. Mary Margaret was more stubborn than he'd credited, and Regina had yet to make a mistake large enough for him to capsize the hodgepodge life raft she'd cobbled together. But he_ would not_ marry the eldest sister, and Belle must not marry another either. Belle was _his_.

The masses of ill officers and wounded ex-footmen held very little wonder for him. Only the middle-daughter piqued his interest.

His treacherously lovely Beauty hadn't seen him yet – but she must know of his arrival. Rum had expected to see her again for the first time looking guilty and timid from across the room, not barreling down the road on a bicycle, wearing a man's hunting costume.

They'd passed at a distance on the road, far enough that she might not recognize his car. He'd seen over 10 of the things parked on the street when he drove through their village, and was glad for their allowing him a small scrap of camouflage now. He recognized her immediately, though.

Rum had heard about her activities from his shrewish fiance. The girl drove. More specifically, she drove _tractors_. For the local farmers. The family did not like her to play chauffeur, but apparently could not object to her being useful "for the War." It seemed all the able-bodied tractor drivers were now stuck in a ditch somewhere.

How could he not follow down the road behind her, at an interval, and examine those fine legs more closely with his field glasses?

Belle. His Belle. Wearing a man's clothes, muddied, and being helped down off the machine (dragging an uprooted tree on a chain behind it) by a short, stocky man with a grumpy demeanor. He helped her down by her waist, like an uncouth child lifting its doll baby, and the pair of them disappeared into his barn. Gold would be having words with the farmer. _Several_ words.

As for Belle, it was time for her to accept that she'd been his from the moment she'd asked to go driving with him in her step-mother's study.

Gold had, in the past three years of trying to buck-off Lady Mary Margaret and Lady Grantham's scheming, quite possibly not expressed his intentions clearly to the foolish girl. He and Belle _would_ marry.

She would do it, or he would ruin her and her family. It might be playing right into Regina's hand, but he didn't care. He knew the girl well enough to bet that Belle would invest herself in keeping the Blanchard skeletons tucked away. She'd surrendered her right to romance and courting, but that changed nothing. He meant to find her, later that night, after Regina's little dinner party.

But, of course, the Butler suffered some sort of fit and doused the poor girl in a tureen of gravy. She used it as an excuse to flee while the youngest sister and the chauffeur were dispatched to the hospital for aid, and he did not see her again for several days.

Belle was avoiding him, always looking pained or guilty when he did catch glimpses of her, and his grasping fiance kept him entangled with Regina for most of the day. When they finally had a moment of privacy, he venomously reminded her which of them really wore the chains. Maybe she'd see reason and set him free, finally. Wouldn't that be a treat? All the same, he needed her to know that it was his choice – his alone – whether or not to be rid of her by way of sullying her reputation and ruining the family.

Gold made liberal use of Mr. Djinn's name, and she responded predictably.

"How dare you threaten me!" Typical Mary Margaret. And how dare _he_? It was as if she lived in a separate world, where he wasn't coerced daily into being her fiance.

"I assure you, I dare a great deal more than that."

"But you can't. You wouldn't."

"I didn't say I would, dearie. I was merely reminding you it was in my power," he growled. All of the women in their household could do with a little reminder that they'd dug their own graves as far as his rather limited good graces were concerned.

He had to leave for London agai before he got the chance to speak to Belle, but he planned to return to Downton.

When he came back, the new influx of convalescing officers filling every empty room and study made it impossible to have a moment of privacy inside the Abbey. He'd tried to find Isobel outside, on one of her walks, but when she wasn't off at the farm she was handing out smiles by the dozen to wounded soldiers. Always a clever girl, she never left herself vulnerable.

He'd resorted to trailing her in the car on her bicycle rides. She still visited the Leroy Farm often, at least once a fortnight. The next time he caught her at it, the two of them were leaning against a hay wagon, drinking beer straight from a pair of brown bottles like a couple of common field hands.

His glasses could uncover many things, but they could not provide a reliable transcript of Belle's close, intense conversation with the bearded man.

The next time it happened, she stayed nearly past dusk – loading sacks and barrels into the barn by light of a gas lamp. Gold's field glasses couldn't make out much more than the occasional silhouette, and not knowing what she was doing was driving him mad.

When she finally left the man and started pedaling the infernal bicycle back to Downton Abbey by moonlight, Gold lay in wait until she moved a suitable distance from the farmer's properties. Then he started his car and wound his way back from his lookout to the man's small house. As Mr. Leroy came out to investigate, Gold pounced.

"Tell me truthfully, is that woman encouraging you in any way?"

"Lady Isobel encourages everybody..."

Gold brandished his cane menacingly. "I mean is she encouraging you romantically."

"Look, brother, I know it's not normal for a farmer to woo a secretary, but..."

"A secretary?"

"Yeah. She might be a liberated, working-type, but Astrid's..."

"Enough," Gold growled, disgusted. He made sure the farmer knew he was to dispense with Belle's services immediately or face dire consequences, and gave Mr. Leroy enough money to buy his discretion.

When the farming spectacle ended, she redoubled her efforts with the patients. Belle knew them all by name, and many of them spoke to her familiarly. She wasn't a nurse, not really; they were _friendly_. It had been bad enough when she'd simply helped them pen letters and fetched them books, now she made twice-daily trips to town to by a special brand of tobacco or a ribbon that matched a special lady's eye color. If she couldn't farm, it seemed she was determined to be a postman.

It almost made a man think it'd be worth being shot, to have a few moments each day in her company. He didn't like it. Some of the soldiers seemed very much in danger of falling in love with his lovely Belle. And, aside from that, it kept her too busy to see him socially. The hospital at Downton could no longer fall below his notice, not if he wanted two moments alone to speak with the girl.

First to take care of the step-mother. Regina retaliated against her co-administrator, an unlikely girl called Emma Swan, by reforming herself into an exemplary care-giver. Since the two of them already agreed to play on the same field of battle, it took relatively little for Gold to bolster Miss Swan and entangle Regina's attentions a little further. He wouldn't have guessed, upon arriving at Downton for the first time in three years, that the only other regular visitor to the house would prove to be his savior.

Truth be told, watching the two spar was a small pleasure. It never ceased to amuse, to see Regina thwarted at every corner. And the girl, a radical who held clout with Lord Grantham – above even that of Lady Grantham, which spoke wonders to her powers of persuasion – only ever needed a light touch. No one was paying attention long enough to catch him meddling, except perhaps the girl in question, and she wasn't telling.

Finally, after breakfast one morning, he caught Belle alone amongst the roses.

He tried to speak to her pleasantly, unsure how to broach the topic after so long. In his fantasies, she always said something to provoke him. In reality, she was quiet and morose. He had to let her know where she stood with him, or risk losing her prematurely to one of the walking wounded. Belle would curb her smiles and small touches when she understood that he meant to have her, and that he possessed the power to ensure her compliance in the matter.

Once he started, she'd interrupted him with a question he hadn't anticipated: why? Why had he said those kind things to her only to propose to her sister?

He found his mouth answering despite himself. It wasn't his idea, hadn't been his fault. She'd strung him along unfairly, and now her sister had him in a deuce. She was the one who did wrong by him, and it was her fault, but he still explained the contract as best he could.

Within two minutes she had him near to begging. Her words were lies. They had to be. He couldn't bear it if she was speaking honestly.

"You never said anything to me. You might have explained."

"You _lied_ to me. At the Garden Party, Mary Margaret told me-"

"And you believed her, naturally. Then you ran away."

"Of course I did, because how could you... how could someone like you ever love someone like me?"

"You could have had happiness, if you just believed that I wanted you."

"That's a lie. You're lying. It was all a trick, a foolish Lady knocking the foolish tradesman down a peg."

"You've made your choice, believe what you want. I've had three years of misery watching as you appeared in the society pages with my sister. It's too much."

If she seriously planned to reject him, she could think again. He took a hard tone. "It's very simple, dearie. I'm going to be rid of your sister one of these days, and you're going to marry me. If not, I'm going to publish the truth about Mr. Djinn."

"Then you're a coward, Rum. And a bad liar too, but a coward most of all," Belle said bravely. She'd called his bluff when he hadn't even been entirely sure that he _was_ bluffing. Clever little thing. He leaned in to kiss her, to make her understand that he'd done it all for her, but she turned away. "I'm sorry, Rum. I can't. I've come so far to stand here on my own two feet, and you are still engaged to Mary Margaret, despite everything."

"Belle..."

"I'll cope. God help the rest of the family, but I know what I have and have not done. I'll survive whatever you're planning. Please leave. And it's Lady Isobel from now on."

She left him there, leaning on his cane and breathing raggedly. He didn't usually let people get away, but opening up the old wounds like this... Things had not gone according to plan. She actively rejected the validity of his arguments, and even ignored his blackmail attempt. When did she become so brave?

He thought he was very much in danger of falling in love with her all over again. He _had_ chosen wisely in wanting her, but then he'd gone and... No. Not him. Mary Margaret. He needed answers about that Garden Party, and he was going to start with his fiance.

Gold found his fiance in her room, waiting on her maid. "Well, if it isn't my little dearie."

"Sir Rumford, what are you doing here?" Mary Margaret bolted up from her seat in front of the mirror and turned to face him.

"I came to see you, dearie. Why shouldn't I? We are, after all, engaged to be married. Have been for going on three years, if memory serves me."

"Yes, but you've never..." She meant to say that he'd never acknowledged her claim in conversation before.

"No, I never saw the need." Gold approached her menacingly, and backed her into her vanity. He placed his hand over her mouth and nose, sealing off her airways while she struggled pointlessly. "I'm going to let you breathe in a minute, and you're going to say two sentences. The first is going to tell me whether or not your sister really meant to humiliate me at that Garden Party, and the second is going to be what Regina said to you that made you play along with this marriage charade."

She gasped when he took his hand away, then met his eyes with her trembling face. "I'll scream."

Gold slapped her across the face. "That is not a good first sentence. Let's try again. Did you lie to me at the Garden Party?"

"Yes." Her usually flawless, pale skin was turning blotchy from his abuse.

"And what did your step-mother say to you that made you do it?"

"She said Isobel sold the story, and that you would publish everything and ruin me if I did not marry you. And..."

"There's more?"

"And I knew it would devastate Isobel not to have you."

"You heartless wretch. You stupid, lying cow. Does any of that seem likely, dearie, or didn't you stop to think in the last three years? Are you really that selfish?"

"What?" Mary Margaret was breathless.

"You're a clever girl, figure it out. I find, in the newspaper business, that investigation is nine-tenths understanding desperation and greed. Who stands to profit by a thing? There's your headline."

"Are you... are you saying Regina? But she couldn't have known unless Isobel told!"

"I'm saying nothing. My tongue and hands are tied by a certain document, as I think you know. But here's a new one for you: you and I _are_ getting married. I've been trying to buck you for three years, operating under the assumption that your sister jilted me. I was planning to replace you with her, when the time was right. But she and I had a little chat today, and I learned some things. I couldn't... I can't force her. I'm letting her go. Everything has been your fault from the beginning. Not mine, _you_.

Stop blubbering! I've seen the way you dote on that charming cousin of yours. Three years ago, I would have liked nothing more than for you to abandon this insane masquerade and run into his arms. But not anymore. Now he's happy with his Miss Nolan – a lovely girl – and your sister won't have me. I'll settle for a lifetime of punishing you instead."

"I'll never-"

"Too late, dearie. You've had a safety net til now. I wasn't willing to insult your father or ruin your reputation, but I've been holding back on _her_ account. If you think you can jilt me or in some way set me aside, let me remind you of something: you have given me the power to destroy you. Don't think I won't use it. Don't ever cross me, do you understand? Never. Absolutely never."

She was coherent enough to nod and tremble, so he took his leave. "I'm returning to London again. Make yourself presentable before you go out. I'll see you again in a fortnight."

He hated himself for losing control. At least she knew now. Knew what he was capable of, and what he mean to do. Damn her. Damn Mary Margaret, damn Lady Grantham, and damn Downton Abbey. And God damn his cowardice, too.

**XVI The Comrades, 1918**

"_It's strange, isn't it? To think about our lives going on as before while we're here, in this." "More than strange. When I think of my life at Downton, it seems like another world." – _Conversation between Lt. Frederick Cheval and Capt. David Blanchard

Mary Margaret didn't know how she was supposed to keep her heart from siezing with Sir Rumford's constant snarling and David's infrequent updates. He was missing in action for a time, but they'd found him. Turned up after three days of walking, was bandaged up, and shipped right back to the trenches.

Isobel told her the news, of all people, and for once Mary Margaret hadn't thought the young brunette was doing it to stir-up trouble. But Isobel's timing was less than perfect. She might have managed well enough, if her sister waited until morning – could have faced it all with one more night of sleep.

She had no one to turn to, and that hurt most of all. Sir Rumford frightened her, her father had kept the truth from her, Regina was busy with Emma, Miss Nolan had her own claim to grief... so it fell to Ruby. Mary Margaret trusted the maid implicitly, which was not at all appropriate.

Ruby found her crying in the corridors more often than not. The first time, she let slip the rest of the house was already gossiping. Everyone knew ahead of her, even the servants. The only one who didn't know was Regina – or, if she did know, she wasn't letting her masque slip.

She and Ruby cried tears of joy mixed with sobs of sorrow when they reported David living again. Living, but being re-deployed.

Isobel and her father had no concept of the tragedy. They wanted her to keep going, to sing at the piano for the men each day, to make a good show of it. They cared because the men cared, and demanded that she keep going no matter what happened. Isobel bandied about pleasant sentiments, like "helping each other to keep going" and "making the most of it."

Mary Margaret couldn't take her seriously. Everything with Sir Rumford was her fault. The man she was marrying didn't love her, the man she loved was marrying another, and there was her step-mother – snarling like a viper in the midst of it all.

Ruby, at the end of each day, heard about it firsthand. How foolish – making friends, real friends, with a servant during times of war. Mary Margaret wasn't sure what bothered her more: that her friend was a maid, or that she'd never known what it was like to have an honest friend before.

It made her feel like a two-faced hypocrite when she had to wrestle herself free from self-pity and chastise Ella for carrying on with the chauffeur. She didn't know what her sister was thinking. Would she marry Mr. Herman and expect them all to come by the garage for tea? It was different with Ruby; they were just friends, not flirting. Mary Margaret swore to keep quiet on the matter of Mr. Herman, but on the condition that Ella not do anything irrational. At least it gave her something to think about other than David's fate.

With Ruby's support, she carried on. She even sang a duet with Isobel for the soldiers, and it felt.. not entirely wrong. She ought to forgive Isobel, finally. If what Gold said was true, and it probably was given how uncharacteristically out of control he'd been when he cornered her in the boudoir, then none of her current misery was really Isobel's fault. She owed her so much more than an apology... but she just couldn't find the words.

What good would it do? She was being coerced into a marriage with a man she'd viciously deprived her sister of, and now that Isobel didn't want him back any amends she made would just be hollow and cruel. It was four years too late for that. Broaching the topic – or any topic – with Gold was off the table too; he terrified her. She was a fighter, and she'd never stop trying to break away from his grip, but it was futile to pretend he didn't scare her. She thought he'd kill her, if it wouldn't have been kinder.

Regina had trapped her with him, she could see that now. Even with no guarantee that Mary Margaret would carry on with their selfish charade long enough to bring Gold to blows over it, she'd gambled on her step-daughter's stubbornness. Knowing she was so rottenly predictable made her soul-sick. But what could she do to eliminate his threat? He had her pinned the same way she'd pinned him: that damn contract. Ruby didn't know either.

Things would be easier if David came home; he always knew how to make the right choice, made her want to impress him with little bits of goodness. And he was a solicitor before he became a socialite and a soldier – he could help with the paperwork, at least.

Mary Margaret tried to paint a pretty, optimistic picture of her engagement to Rumford in her letters to her cousin. She didn't want him to worry unnecessarily, and she thought... maybe... maybe her supposed happiness would make him happy. She liked Miss Nolan too much to play any more games, but David could still change without her running aground between them.

One afternoon she felt cold – ghostly cold – and she knew: David was dead.

No one believed her, of course. Not even Ruby. And didn't she feel silly when they received a late-night telegram announcing his transfer back to Downton for medical attention? Everything was going to be OK. David was home. She could deal with all the rest in the morning. He was still breathing, so she still had hope.

Cold. Wet. Muddy. Hell. The adjectives came easily to men so far removed from the front. Walking wounded and those simply waiting for their time to die littered the rooms and corridors of Downton.

David was somewhere between these categories: paralysis, they said.

Paralysis was something he knew well from the field. Shell shock, nerve gas, shrapnel. He saw it first hand. From hunkering down with fifteen good men as dirt and bullets rained down above him. From seeing comrades torn to pieces by a lucky bomber. From seeing soldiers half-mad with fear shot for cowardice, and from knowing that it could have been anybody, even himself, against the firing squad if things had gone differently. From seeing a rifle flash, knowing the bullet was meant for him; from being powerless to move or defend himself, even then.

Everything was brown in War, except the blood and Mary Margaret's tiny white horse. But eventually that would dry and turn-coat, too. Lots of words described the War, but _brown_ seemed the most offensive of them to his thinking now.

At the front, men prayed to be spared. Barring that, they prayed for a bullet to kill them cleanly. A man could go mad from so much brown, but still.. it was still better than the hospital. In the hospital, most of the men simply prayed for a swift end.

Even at night, when the field was black or bathed in moonlight and the men's little gas lamps glowed at odd intervals through the trench, the world looked brown to him. Occasionally one of the enlisted men would break out an accordion or mouth organ from somewhere in the warren of passages, and the sound would drift over to the Germans on the other side. They never took pot-shots at the musicians. Even when the songs dulled into the background and became simply part of the scenery, a song could not be brown. Englishmen and Germans alike must be able to appreciate that point.

Nothing at Downton was brown. Things came in shades of toffee of _cafe au lait_. Even dun-haired cousin Isobel wasn't really brown; she was maple, with maybe a hint of chestnut. She served as a lovely compliment to the nursing staff, always tending to their letters and day-to-day needs while they changed bandages and portioned out medication. Mary Margaret cared for him, too, as did Abigail. But the pair of them, they were in familiar territory; caring for their friend and future spouse.

Isobel did it simply because she preferred nurturing to worrying. She had a lot in common with Frederick that way, and David had a lot of hope for the pair of them. Frederick was a second cousin to the Blanchards, by his mother's side, and he was also the sole reason that David Blanchard survived Amiens. He'd make an excellent partner for one of the girls, perhaps an excellent heir to the estate if David was invalidated...

At least Mary Margaret seemed settled with Rumford Gold. Their engagement never felt quite real to him, primarily from it having been conducted almost exclusively in London while he stood ankle-deep in mud defending fields in France. Her letters to him had not, prior to recent times, ever discussed the upcoming nuptials with any certainty. She definitely did not paint their time in London with a flattering brush. But all that changed a few months after he began his regular visits to Downton. If his cousin was happy with the man, who was he to say differently?

David hardly knew her Rum, but he would be sure to like him – if Mary Margaret did. And if the newspaper man was not very good to his cousin, Gold would have him to answer to. They'd settled on a date after the War ended. At the time, with the end in sight, it seemed reasonable to everyone.

He and Frederick discussed their lady-loves just like brothers in a pub when the sun was shining and the dust settled for a few hours in odd intervals. He told Leftenant Cheval all about Mary Margaret and Abigail, and Freddy told him about a girl he hoped to court when he got home. Neither of them could wait to return – none of the men could.

He and Freddy shared most things. Both of them were short a servant soldier, and both of them got on so efficiently that their superiors could see to sparing two Leftenants for patrol when their names came up on the rosters. A life debt only solidified things.

They'd been at the bottom of a hedgerow, scared almost past moving, when they realized a troop of Germans had the high ground on them. They'd tried to double back, lose the enemies amidst a small orchard, but Freddy knew they were surrounded. All they could hear were gunshots over their feet and hearts pounding. Somehow, they came out of that scrape. They walked out, three days later, on wobbly legs.

The same legs carried them back to their regiment, and eventually to the battle at Amiens, only he was Captain Blanchard now. Leave it to the army to reward negligence with a promotion – it should, by all rights, have been Freddy's. He was always the one who kept them alive.

Amiens... that place was the brownest yet. Brown fields shelled clear of crops, brown rats scurrying among brown bricks, and brown skies that refused to cheer the frightened men in little brown helmets. He had to lead them – he and Freddy – had to lead men toward their deaths. That wasn't new, wasn't a novelty. But he couldn't pretend that their next push was going to be easy.

Leftenant Cheval assured the men they'd toss back whatever the Germans gave them two-fold, he was always a great one for morale. The Captain assured them only that it would be done together, wishing all the while he could wax lyrical like Henry V, but he wasn't that man. He was scared. The men couldn't see that, though, so he'd left the cheer to Freddy and sounded the charge.

It was hard to live in the present and think of Downton's great arches all around him when he'd seen so many good soldiers cut down in a blaze of German firepower. The battle was a blur. He remembered the sounds, mostly, and waking up with Freddy pulling him to safety as the rest of his comrades who'd surrendered had already been carried off as prisoners.

Somehow, that little white horse stuck with him through it all.

He owed Leftenant Cheval his life twice-over. Freddy didn't like to talk of how he'd managed to drag them both from the mud that day, and David didn't like to ask. He'd lost the use of his legs below the waist, but Freddy nearly lost his life. It was only quick work of a clever medic that stopped the gangrene and fever from setting in and permanently maiming the man.

Abigail stayed by his bedside as he recovered, along with Mary Margaret. His cousin had even arranged for his fiance to move out of his mother's cottage into an adjacent room in the main house. Abigail had always been Lady Grantham's guest, of course, but she hadn't been treated as family – real family – before Mary Margaret took control. It made him happy, knowing that hey would take care of her even if he... Well, no sense dwelling in dark places unnecessarily.

Dr. Whale said he'd severed his spinal cord. That he would never walk again. It sounded so clinical, so cold and simple. He'd live – if living was what they wanted to call it. No children. No sexual reflexes. Abigail deserved more. David tried to tell her that it was over, but she was just so.. so Abigail.

"I don't care if you can't walk. You must think I'm very feeble if you believe that would make a difference," she told him.

He knew it wouldn't, but... "There's something else. We can never be... properly married."

"That side of things, it's not important to me. I promise." Silent tears ran down her cheeks as spoke.

"It's not important now, but it will be. And it should be. I can't steal away the life you ought to have..."

"Just because life isn't easy doesn't mean it isn't right," she said with a voice that spoke of finality. That was it then. She was staying, despite everything. Mary Margaret hadn't been able to do it when his inheritance became less than certain, but Abigail would. If she would have him, he would spend his whole life making sure she wasn't unhappy. She had a right to a husband who could walk and give her children, but he couldn't force her to leave. He wasn't strong enough.

**XVII The Wait, 1918**

"_I have no shame. In fact, I have great pride in the love of that young woman and I will strive to be worthy of it."_ – Mr. Thomas Herman

Ella's journey from 1916, the spoiled daughter of an Earl, to 1918, an able-bodied nurse with a man who loved her, was not an easy one. But, like Thomas said, anyone could change their life if they worked hard enough.

She remembered the early days fondly.

Miss Emma Swan, daughter to an unimportant baronet in York, had been her inspiration. She was a suffragette, like Ella, but she took a much more liberated stance on their activities. It was Emma who, finally tired of hearing Ella complain about her gilded cage, put a solution to her.

Emma – ardent reformer that she was – brought up the prospect of nursing early in a dinner service. She was welcome to table in Downton whenever she liked now that the War had brought her into the region. Since the suffragettes would not march out of respect for the soldiers, she'd nothing better to do than champion hospital reform and progress.

Her father was... well, he had not been impressed by Emma and Ella's proposition. But Mary Margaret could always convince him of anything, and she'd just returned from London, so luckily the oldest sister took up the youngest's case.

"You can't pretend it's not respectable when every day we're treated to pictures of Queens and Princesses in Red Cross uniforms. Ella must be allowed to do her bit, like everyone else," the ebony-haired daughter told him. Just like that, Ella had her own way. She'd left for York the following Friday.

The gore took its toll on Ella, shattered any illusions she'd had about the chances of people finding happy endings as though they were dispensed by tiny faeries, but she was stronger now. More her own woman, and less the family pet.

The price of self-reliance was knowledge.

Ella _knew_ that she could do great things now, not just disseminate pamphlets and organize flowers as charity work. She wasn't going to sit idly by while they locked her in the gilded cage again, now that the Great War was over.

Thomas had confessed to her, ages ago, before she left for school. She still hadn't made an answer to him. He loved her, and he wanted to marry her. She could recite his proposal perfectly, held it close to her heart throughout the worse of the casualties:

"I know I shouldn't say it, but I can't keep it in any longer. I told myself you're too far above me, but things are changing. When the war is over, the world won't be the same place as when it started. I'll make something of myself, I promise. Bet on me. If your family casts you off, it won't be forever. They'll come around and until they do I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness."

She'd been flattered but unsure, and that had upset him. _ Flattered is a word posh people use when they're about to say no._ That's what Thomas said. They'd agreed to keep the proposal a secret. Ella hadn't been able to give him an answer then. The nation was at war – everyone needed space to think, and Thomas' proposal was her most cherished memory.

It was as if she'd been reborn, a thunder bird in spring. Nursing was more savage and more cruel than she could have possibly imagined, but she did get used to it – finally. Nurse Blanchard was a much nicer prospect than Lady Ella. But Regina and Mary Margaret still insisted on bringing her away from the hospital, back to the Abbey at odd intervals for their little soirees. She couldn't see the point, frankly, but at least it meant that Thomas had to come down and fetch her personally.

Sir Rumford Gold had taken to dining with them sometime in 1917, but Ella couldn't imagine what her older sister saw in the man. Thomas was called for duty not long after Gold's arrival, and they'd had their first serious argument. He insisted that he would not fight. Conscientious objection, he called it. The thought of him in prison terrified her, but it wasn't just his intent to abstain – it was the way he meant to do it.

He'd be court marshaled, and very likely shot for cowardice too. At the very least, he'd have a criminal record for the rest of his life. How could he simply give their potential futures away?

She praised any deity listening the day the Army turned him down. Thomas had a heart murmur. It might lead to complications one day, but it wouldn't cut him down on a field in France in the next ten months. They quarreled again when he planned to "make a statement" anyway, said horrid things to one another about the Easter Uprising, but he finally abandoned the insanity. He did it for her. She knew it was for her sake. And the worst part was that she couldn't answer his lingering question – she didn't know if she could say yes.

For all his intelligence and ambition, Thomas could be woefully stupid about some things. All they had between rows were stolen moments and trembling promises. All except one: Thomas promised he would stay in Downton until Ella agreed to run away with him, and she resolutely believed him.

She wasn't wilting from him any more, nor from her family's scrutiny. He would stay at Downton. Stay until she wanted to run away. All she needed were her own two hands – then anyone could change their life.

It was hard when she was surrounded by naysayers, though. Mary Margaret thought that, in war, ladies tended to make friendships that were not quite appropriate. Awkward when things returned to normal, she said, and she called it friendly advice.

It didn't matter. Thomas would stay until she wanted to run away. Regina didn't know anything.

He said she was a free spirit, and she hoped she was, but Thomas didn't understand that he was asking her to give up her whole world and everyone in it. It _was_ a high price, no matter what he said; she loved her sisters and her parents, and he didn't know them like she did. And his people, would they accept her?

Thomas said it came down to love, and that everything else was a detail. They seemed like dauntingly large details to Ella.

It wasn't fair of her to make him wait when he'd like to be taking up the part of Ireland in his homeland's troubles. The Easter Uprising was still a sore point between them; he'd lost someone. Ella told him he was free – he didn't have to wait on her answer. Thomas said he would wait forever. That was when she knew, in retrospect. Her Thomas would always wait until she wanted to run away.

Shockingly, Ella found herself ready to sprint.

**XVIII The Transformation, 1919**

"_The world was in a dream before the War, but now it's woken up and said goodbye to it... and so must we."_ – Earl Leopold Blanchard, Lord Grantham

Frederick recalled Lord Grantham's speech to all the remaining officers and household staff, assembled in the great hall, the day the firing ceased:

"I think while the clock strikes, we should all make a silent prayer to mark the finish of this terrible war. And what that means for each and every one of us. Let us remember the sacrifices which have been made, and the men who will never come back, and give them our thanks."

The clock chimed eleven times on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in 1918. Nobody spoke of it as a surety, but Freddy was sure – from that time forward, things started to change. He could see the changes in Miss Nolan, day by day. She'd been determined to stay with her crippled fiance, despite the better judgment of everyone, and he'd loved her for her bravery. Her grace. Her kindness. He loved _her_, for herself, really.

That is: he loved the woman who was engaged to marry his best friend.

It was like she'd realized her own strength when she accepted David's injuries, and all the duties and sacrifices it would take for her to become his wife. But she wasn't without fear or doubt, and Frederick was the only one she could talk to about it.

He knew, academically, that she couldn't divulge her worry to David. And Lady Grantham and Mary Margaret, her only friends in Downton, were never entirely above suspect. She wasn't close with any of the other women, and Mrs. Blanchard's only worry was for her son. He knew that, so he endeavored to be about when her resolve started to crumble.

Mary Margaret was only too happy to take over her duties when Abigail started feeling overwhelmed.

Frederick listened. And when she cried, he comforted her. He was a terrible, wicked, unworthy man.

Belle was not immune to the changing times at Downton. She'd hoped to go on as she always had, nursing a slowly healing heart (which Sir Rumford had so cruelly reopened) and exchanging pleasantries with the soldiers. Except, of course, that the war was over, and she was still alone.

She thought she'd had a beau in their cousin, Leftenant Frederick Cheval, the man who'd saved David's life at Amiens. He was handsome and kind, and he spoke with a soft intelligence that bellied his otherwise sporting physique. They got along famously, but... he seemed much more interested in Miss Nolan, which was as perplexing as it was unexpected.

Abigail spent her time with David, and David – when he wasn't with his mother or Mary Margaret – spent his time with Frederick. The three of them got along very well, but Belle (who fancied herself more of an observer than a participant in the courtships blossoming around her) could see after the first few weeks that Frederick had eyes for his best friend's fiance.

David owed Frederick his life, would give him anything he asked – and Frederick asked only for a little more of his time. So that he could share it with Miss Nolan as well, probably.

Mary Margaret spent most of her time wheeling David's chair through the gardens, talking to him about his future. Anyone could see she still loved him, and that she'd finally shed some of her vanities and pride to act like an actual human instead of wicked imitation of one. When she wasn't with him, she was with Sir Rumford. Seeing her sister in love with one man but marrying another, just for spite and pride, made Belle queasy.

Rum hadn't addressed Belle since their reunion in the garden. As far as she could tell, he was going forward at a full tilt with his wedding plans for Mary Margaret. For a man who protested that he did not love his fiance, he certainly planned to look after her. They toured every house in the county, finally settling on what Belle thought to be the most vulgar one, and he began renovating it to suit his needs.

That was it, then. He really was going to make Mary Margaret his wife. Belle wondered, sometimes, if she'd dreamed their heated argument amongst the rose bushes. At other times, she wondered if it wasn't just him playing his games again. Half of what he told her about contracts and scheming might have been made up. She hadn't thought so at the time, but then... what was she supposed to do about it?

She loved a man she couldn't be with. He'd made the gulf too wide with all his games and lies. Sometimes, the only winning move with Rum was simply not to play. Belle kept her distance.

Gold did his best to keep his fiance apart from her cousin. He briefly considered working with Regina again, but that was not a mistake he was eager to repeat. It cost him too much last time, the price was too high.

He'd never meant... but no. Intent was meaningless.

Belle seemed content, at least. He'd worried that she might take up with the Blanchard's other cousin – Sir Frederick Cheval, Leftenant Cheval now he supposed – but the Leftenant cooled in his attentions to her, for which Rum was grateful. It was hard enough, finding himself engaged to marry Mary Margaret simply because she did not deserve to be happy. He wasn't sure he'd survive seeing Belle actually happy with a man other than himself at the same time.

Once he was married and had sufficiently torn down his wife, the prospect of Belle with another might become a manageable ache, another limp like the one in his leg, instead of the raging agony that wracked his body every time he thought of her lips pressing against another man's face.

It left him generally numb, and unable to really enjoy any of his tiresome games.

Even the prospect of punishing Mary Margaret was starting to lose its sheen. She'd changed. Not much, but enough that he noticed it. She was nicer than she was before the war, certainly. The girl hadn't quite accepted her fate lie in his aged hands, but she was being genuinely kind to Miss Nolan and David despite that – and without trying to force them apart.

When did he become the malicious, pettier one in their unlikely pairing?

Regina liked the way her games were going. She had the most troublesome step-daughter saddled with a certifiable monster, Miss Nolan – the future Countess Blanchard and Lady Grantham – wrapped around her finger, and she'd finally shirked the tiresome pestering of Emma Swan with an even more tempting thought than nursing: war orphans.

There was still a spot of bother about David's position as heir. He couldn't have children, and Leopold thought that might rule him out. Regina had invested too much time in him not to keep him near, but she was confident she could overcome that hurdle too – given enough time.

Her mother, Mrs. Cora Millcroft of Nowhere Important, would be proud of her. She'd tangled with Rumford Gold and won. He (and beasts like him) had tugged the strings of the people around him like puppets for as long as she'd known him. If anyone deserved the fair-skinned, dark-haired little monster that made a comfortable marriage to Leopold Blanchard impossible, it was Rum.

Seeing Isobel unhappy wasn't a bad second prize, either. Isobel never registered much of anything on her radar, but since snaring Gold's otherwise absent heart – and that amazed her, truly – the middle daughter had been nothing but a liability. It suited her just fine when Belle left Downton Abbey for Bath, but she'd been back for a while and things got awfully tense at the height of the War.

Belle, more so than even Mary Margaret, was a survivor. Where the eldest sister fought, the middle child considered other possibilities. She'd yet to see the girl ever take a fully offensive against her enemies, but then – people like Belle didn't really _have_ enemies anyway. Except for her sister. But even that animosity had receded in the last year or two.

As for her youngest step-daughter... Leopold was beside himself with worry over her. She supposed he should be – after all, Ella _had_ run away with the family chauffeur.

Ruby did not like Mary Margaret's fiance. Not at all. He'd approached her in the hall one day and ushered her into his room, offering to "increase her stipend." She thought he meant to steal her away from Downton Abbey when they married, but he actually wanted something much more disturbing.

He wanted her to _spy_.

Ruby was better at finding things when they went missing and at going unnoticed while she completed her duties than almost any other servant in the Abbey. She was also a close... well, she might have said friend a year ago, but with the war over things were a bit strained. She was a close _something_ of Lady Mary Margaret's.

Except he didn't want her to spy on Lady Mary Margaret, he wanted her to spy on Lady Isobel. Gold wanted to know what she liked, where she went, who she saw, what she said...

Ruby wanted to refuse his deal, but she needed the money. And she wouldn't tell too much to him, nothing actually useful anyway. Besides, it was only Lady Isobel. At least, that's what she told Lady Mary Margaret when they shared their bits of news at the end of the day.

Ella couldn't have gone back to her life before the war. She knew what it was like to work a full day, go to bed tired (in a good way) and feel a sense of purpose in her life. The society galas and dress fittings were behind her, and behind her they would stay.

She'd never been happier than she was when she told Thomas they could finally run away. It was drastic, but exciting, and it would certainly change her life overnight.

They'd made it nearly all the way to Gretna Green before stopping to sleep. Mary Margaret and Isobel overtook them in the night; Ella hadn't counted on Belle's infamous driving prestige. They quarreled, but Ella had allowed her sisters to bring her home, finally.

They married in a small ceremony with Thomas' family, to the horror of the others.

It was a good thing. She got to have her wedding in broad daylight, instead of like a thief sneaking in the night. Thomas hadn't been happy, but he'd waited for her anyway – even though they hadn't gone through with their plan to run away. He would always wait, and she adored him for it.

Her father had ranted and raged, but he did eventually accept their marriage and offer them some small signs of friendship. If the family had wanted to give her up because of her choices, that was their choice to make. She was content to be friends with everyone, and – for the first time – Ella thought she had a real chance of that happening.

David knew his back was broken and that he would not recover. Dr. Whale told him so repeatedly, and he'd no notion of refuting the diagnosis. It was just... his feet kept tingling. He had to ignore it. It must be in his head, the product of wishful thinking.

Then, one day, Abigail was removing their tea things and tripped over a small foot stool. He stood up and caught her in his arms. He stood. His legs could move.

Dr. Whale redacted his diagnosis; said the injury must have been more of a bruising than a smashing, but those were all empty words to him. He could walk. Someday, he would run. This changed everything.

Mary Margaret would... no. He couldn't think about his cousin. Not when she'd abandoned him and Abigail had stayed. They'd each faced trials together, but what kind of man would he be if he threw off the fiance who refused to leave him and made overtures to a woman who was, herself, engaged to be married?

He confirmed his plans at dinner that night: he and Abigail would marry in the summer, and Freddy would stand up for him alongside Lord Grantham and the rest of Downton Abbey.

Mary Margaret knew she owed her younger sister more than just an apology. With Ella gone away to set up house with her Thomas, Gold's constant bearing-down, and Regina lurking in the wings to strike out at her (should she ever manage to break away), Isobel and Ruby were her only real family.

Her father didn't count – he was busy trying to right the entire county, and her feelings for David were _far_ from brotherly. As for Abigail, well... she tried to support the girl. Abigail had made a huge sacrifice in staying with her fiance when he had no prospects and nothing to give her. Now that David was going to recover, how could Mary Margaret ever ask him to leave her?

Maybe the war had softened her. Maybe she was just hoping Isobel would have a change of heart and unburden her of Rumford. Either way, she told her all about Sir Rumford's chat with Ruby.

Isobel deserved to know, so she could prepare for whatever the old snake was planning. She knew that much, at least, about the near-stranger she was set to marry: Gold never did anything for nothing. If he wanted information about her sister, he wanted it _for something_.

Abigail hated her situation. She liked her fiance, really she did, but she _loved_ Freddy. She and David met and agreed to marry during the early days of the War. Everything was uncertain and exciting, and it felt like they'd dared to tempt fate by even talking of marriage. Then he'd been paralyzed, and she'd vowed to stay. In fact, she'd insisted. She could live as David's wife without the physical aspect. It was never very high on her list of priorities.

Not until she met Freddy. He ignited thoughts and feelings in Abigail that she hadn't known existed; even speaking to him set her heart racing. And of course she wouldn't leave David for someone able-bodied. She'd promised to stay, and she would. But she couldn't resist temptation.

Abigail always let Frederick hold her when she cried, always found him when she needed a place to confide. She knew it was wrong of her, but she didn't care. She'd probably never see him again after he left Downton.

If someone had told her, when they'd heard the news of David's spinal injury, that her biggest obstacle would be him walking again, she'd have laughed in their face. She wouldn't even dream of leaving him as an invalid, but as an able-bodied man? Certainly he could find another prospect. Mary Margaret, maybe? If she ever broke it off with the wretched Sir Rumford.

Except David looked at her so dutifully at her. And he told her at every opportunity that he loved her and looked forward to their wedding. It was so rote, she almost rolled her eyes at him once. How could she ever walk away from a man whose only fault was not being Freddy?

They would be happy enough. She and David were still very friendly, but...

Oh yes, Abigail hated this.

Leopold thought his wife was quite at her wit's end with him. He'd agreed to host David's wedding at Downton, thrilled that the man he was grooming to replace him had regained the use of his legs and lower body, and all Regina could do was complain that it would push back Mary Margaret's wedding to Sir Rumford.

Well the devil could take Gold for all he cared; he wasn't nearly good enough for his favorite child, not by half. He wasn't good enough for his favorite dog, either, but there was nothing to be done. They'd been engaged since the very beginning of the war, the time to object had passed.

Did Regina know how unfeeling she sounded at times? How selfish and stupid? She'd raised his girls and saved his home, but Lord Grantham did not quite know how to deal with his Lady now that the war had ended. All he'd had before was a warring family. Tempered by the horror of a warring world, he could not go back to the petty squabbling of old. There was to be peace in the Abbey – in his home.

**XIX The Epidemic, 1919**

_"You may live 40 or 50 years with one of these two women; see to it that you pick the right one." -_ Lady Grantham, encouraging David to marry Abigail_ **  
**_

Belle thought it was funny that David called his cane "the damned stick." She was sure Rum probably felt the same way about his, sometimes, but he always brandished it with a sort of twisted delight and calm reverie. He had to use it, so he had fun; made it a natural extension of his body. Her cousin wanted to walk unassisted down the aisle at his wedding, though. And he didn't want to use a cane for the rest of his life. It was a noble wish, certainly, and Mary Margaret encouraged him to practice every day.

Abigail always said she didn't mind the limp one way or the other, and she always gave him a smile that – in Belle's eyes – looked slightly duller than the one before it. Whatever her true feelings, Abigail was a paradigm of charity. Not many would have taken David when he was supposedly bound to a wheel chair forever, and not even certain to inherit the Abbey. Now that he was recovering, it seemed odd that his fiance was suffering.

Belle knew Miss Nolan liked their other cousin, Leftenant Cheval. It would be no great cruelty for Abigail to break off her engagement now that David was able-bodied. Belle couldn't understand why she didn't. If two people loved each other...

Well, maybe she did understand a little. She still loved Sir Rumford, even though he'd hurt her, but that – at least – was healing. Sometimes she wondered if he'd ever loved her. He said he did, but he'd never once acted like it since the Garden Party. That felt like a lifetime apart from where she stood today, watching Regina organize flowers and plan her cousin's wedding.

Instead of dwelling on the things she couldn't have, Belle tried to make herself useful. The transition back to her routine before the war was difficult. She still drove, and had more opportunities to do so now that Mr. Herman and Ella were gone, but there was so much less to make her really useful.

Somehow, she became the unofficial organizer of the wedding presents. David and Abigail had so many friends, and all of the Blanchard's relatives would attend. It gave her something to do with her hands, to fold the tissue paper and polish the candlesticks and display the jewels in a flattering light. She knew the work was trivial, but it was better than sitting in the drawing room and watching her sister skulk under Rum's scrutiny.

Belle didn't know if her turn would ever come, but she might be happy as the maiden auntie. She knew one thing: she would never be timid about it again. She should have run straight to London the minute her sister became engaged and given Rum a piece of her mind. She'd done it, finally, when he'd tried to explain himself and blackmail her family. But it was too little too late. He was a terror, truly he was, but she loved him and denied herself anyway.

They all gathered for supper and toasted the happy couple. Belle knew Regina wanted nothing more than for David's wedding to go off without any problems, she didn't make a secret out of it, so it surprised Belle when her step-mother excused herself to go lie down half way through the first course. Then the footman took ill, not a moment later, and Ruby had to serve the wine in a pair of white gloves and a maid's livery.

Abigail complained next, said she'd felt ill for a while but hadn't wanted to break up the party. Mary Margaret led her off to her room, and excused herself to look after the blonde girl. The war really had made her sister kinder, just as it made Belle braver and Ella more realistic. Belle felt her own head beginning to swim.

When she rose to excuse herself, Rum jumped to his feet and took her arm without hesitation. She thought he looked furious, or maybe a little worried, when he handed her off to Ruby to be led away and put to sleep.

When Dr. Whale finally came to the Abbey to confirm what they already knew – influenza, the Spanish variety, all across the country at once – he saw the masters and servants with equal frequency. War might have discriminated sometimes: left behind a certain footman because a Lord intervened, sent a certain soldier to the front because his commanding officer didn't like the look of him. But illness knew no such boundaries.

After he left the servant's quarters, he passed Lady Mary Margaret and Mr. Blanchard dancing to a record and kissing softly. It always struck him as odd, what the upper classes did with their leisure time. To him, it seemed like an inopportune moment for dancing. Fortunately, it wasn't his job to notice such things. He passed Miss Nolan – already feeling well enough to walk around again – on his way to his last patient: Lady Isobel. That was not a scene he'd care to witness, what with Mr. Blanchard being the young lady's fiance.

As he arrived at the young woman's room, Rumford Gold was circling in front of her door like a shark in a tank five sizes too small. The fierce man simply growled at him, took him by the upper arm, and forced the doctor into Lady Isobel's sickroom.

She was a mess. Hair plastered back over pale, sweaty skin, and her entire body felt hot against his skin. Dr. Whale did what he could. She'd have to fight through the night. If she could do that, then she might stand a real chance.

When he left his patient with an attendant to sponge her skin and monitor her breathing, Whale took two steps before Gold pounced on him again.

"Sir Rumford! Wha-"

"How is she?" The man's voice was more ragged and carried a thicker accent than the doctor had ever heard him use before.

"Lady Isobel is-"

"How is she really. Tell me the truth," Gold practically snarled.

"We'll know more in-"

"I'm sorry, dearie, let me try this again: I have in my possession some _very_ compromising letters between yourself and a certain Mother Superior in Rippon. _Now how is she_?"

Whale told him everything.

Rum collected things. Property and favors, mostly, but – ever the newspaper man – he also had an impressive assortment of blackmail. It hadn't been hard to find information on the doctor. He'd acquired it about halfway through the war, in case he needed it to further assist Miss Swan in her battles with Regina. He hadn't even thought about it since the light-haired radical stomped off into the sunset to champion the cause of war orphans.

When the doctor wouldn't answer him honestly, he'd played the only card he had – a lukewarm scandal that wouldn't even rate the back page of most proper newspapers, but which would ruin the good doctor just as well. He could have tried a bribe, he supposed, but bribes were for people who had the luxury of time to negotiate terms. Until Belle recovered, time was the one thing he didn't have in abundance.

Gold was dumbfounded by the wealth of information the doctor had acquired by treating the Blanchards half his life. It was like the floodgates opened and all their muddied waters came rushing out. He'd scared the man past reason, he knew. Whale started with the irrelevant things, and worked his way up.

The Scotsman considered rapping him upside the head with his cane to speed things along. He needed to know if Belle would live, really live, not to hear the same polite platitudes repeated again. By the time Whale caught him up to Regina's faked pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage, Gold was glad he hadn't struck the man. Finally, he had something to end their infuriating stalemate.

The predatory gleam fell from his eyes when Whale finally managed to tell him about Belle's condition, though. She could die at any time – the next few hours were crucial. With the rest of the house either ill or in an uproar, Gold stationed himself by Belle's bed and took over for the maid. The girl stayed, of course – to chaperone them – but she remained seated in the corner and did not speak after one of his more withering glares pinned her in place.

Belle had to live. Now, when he was so close to finally over-turning Regina and when he knew that Mary Margaret would release him at the first opportunity, all that mattered was that Belle stayed with him. He could love her from a distance. It would be easier to see her happy up close, and maybe one day even regain her friendship, than to watch her live while he was mired in misery over twenty miles away.

He didn't sleep. He didn't blink. When the maid fell asleep, he spoke to her, softly.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry. I did something to you that I bitterly regret, Belle, and I want you to know..."

Regina's voice drifted in from somewhere in the Abbey. She was screaming about something, but he ignored it.

He started again. "I want you to know..."

The door burst open and Ruby, his inept little spy, burst into the room. "Vera, Vera – come quickly! Miss Nolan caught Lady Mary Margaret kissing Mr. Blanchard in the foyer, and she says she's leaving Downton tonight. Lady Grantham is in hysterics, throwing things. Oh, wake up! We've got to pack her essentials before the car comes around. They'll send the rest on the train. Hurry!"

The girl sleeping in the corner sprung to her feet and made for the door. Ruby turned to face Gold, still at Belle's bedside, and spoke. "I'll leave you here with her, if you'll promise... promise not to hold Lady Mary Margaret to her engagement? I know you love Lady Isobel, otherwise-"

"Miss Lucas," Gold said, his voice tired and broken, "you are a better friend than Mary Margaret deserves. Go. Tell her not to worry about me. I'll... well, she knows."

Gold stayed with her all night, and past the dawn. Her breathing grew lazy a few times, but she always rallied for him. His beautiful, brave, clever peach. How could he have ever left her? And even though she wouldn't have him for a dinner partner, let alone a husband or lover, Gold intended to make sure she never wanted for anything ever again. If she wanted to move out of her step-mother's house, rent a place in Venice and read Plutarch until her brain rotted, he'd find a way. All she had to do was breathe.

When Belle finally stabilized, Gold collapsed into his chair next to her. He probably looked as awful as she felt, but it seemed like she was out of the deep waters – finally. None of her family had come to look in on her; most likely they had other matters, like canceling David's wedding and nursing the rest of the household back to health, keeping them busy.

He woke to the feeling of small hands brushing his long, unkempt hair out of his eyes.

"Sir Rumford..."

Belle. She was a live. "Just Rum. _Please_. I want you to marry me."

She coughed a little, and looked at him sadly. "Why did you try to bribe Ruby?"

"She told you, did she?"

"She didn't. Not me. But why did you do it? If you want to know something you can ask me."

"Alright then, dearie. I will. Once and for all, are you still in love with me?"

"Should I admit to loving a man who prefers someone else over me?"

"I don't prefer Mary Margaret. In fact, I've set her free. I know you won't have me, Belle. I know it. But I had to ask you one more time... I almost lost you forever tonight. I'll not force your sister or you to marry me, but _please_. Just please."

"I'm sorry, Rum. I was so angry... I didn't fight to keep you, and I should have done. We could have avoided everything if... I'm sorry. I do love you. But Regina will be...and Papa...how can we?"

"I'll protect you." Gold pulled her into his arms for an embrace as bodily as he dared, given her fragile health. The rest of the pieces would fall into place, he had the one that mattered. She was safe.

They broke apart when Mary Margaret walked into the room, her eyes rimmed in red and her clothes wrinkled. She didn't look at all surprised to see Gold with his arms wrapped around her sister, but she had been crying.

"Belle..." Gold felt her flinch at that. Mary Margaret never called her anything but Isobel. "Papa fell ill sometime in the night," the elder sister continued. "He died."

**XX The Beginning, 1920**

"_If you mistreat her, I will personally have you torn to pieces by wild dogs." "I'll expect no less."_ – Earl David Blanchard, Lord Grantham, to Sir Rumford Gold

The Christmas and New Year celebrations of their brave new decade were somber ones at Downton. They laid the father, Lord, husband and master to rest three days after his passing. It devastated the girls, but most noticeably Lady Mary Margaret. Ella returned, along with Thomas, and both were grateful that he'd given them his blessing when their ways last parted.

It was no place for talks of matrimony, so the new Lord Grantham and his intended, along with Sir Rumford and Belle, made no mention of the tumultuous circumstances that had brought them all a little closer. Everyone, from the lowliest kitchen maid to the newly-minted Earl, wore full mourning clothes. Everyone, that is, except Regina.

She'd taken ill again, from the agony of seeing her husband dead and from knowing that all her careful work to keep Mary Margaret from reigning over Downton had come to naught. It was all Rum's fault, he'd outmaneuvered her. Somehow he'd got to Whale, though what he'd found that she hadn't remained a mystery to her.

Regina knew how it would look, not standing by as her husband was interred, but she also knew that nothing she could do or say would matter now. She'd lost. And all she had to look forward to was the miserable life of a Dowager, suffering whatever indignities were dictated by her two eldest step-daughters who had the rest of their lives to compare notes and commiserate.

At least she would have a little quiet, for once.

_Fin._


End file.
